I am a worrier. I was raised by a worrier, a worrier who did not just worry about our family, but worried about the population of the entire world, the planet, with back-up worries that involved the universe. Hilarous, but totally true. Seriously. If I want to make myself laugh today, all I have to do is think of my worry wart father during this election. I think he would have rolled up into the fetal position until the whole damn thing was over.
And it’s not a bad idea.
I used to worry more. I used to make myself sick. I am better, although still not completely worry free. I can still ruminate about things, go over and over and over them in my head. I can still borrow worries when I can’t generate enough of my own.
But I do it much less. I do what I can about the issue, then just try and hightail it out of there. I let life go a little. It’s so much better than holding on. And worrying until your stomach feels like it’s trying to digest a stick of dynamite.
Letting it go a little. Letting it be. Letting myself move through instead of get stuck. Gratitude for learning to shimmy my way out of the mud. And breathe.