Worry.

I worry.

Unavoidably so.

Tendrils of anxiety twist and bend and curl and spiral into tightly wound springs, catastrophe cocked and loaded.

Worries as rough and ripped as hangnails snag on fabrics of thought.

Voices warn to let go of the uncontrollable, to stop selling my proverbial birthright for the valueless messes of pottage that burden my mind. But I, like Esau, choose poorly.

And I worry.

I worry about my growing babies.

About whether or not I can give them all that they need for their foggy futures. All the tools and tricks of the trade. The emotional resilience required to navigate impossible decisions.

I worry about time.

I glorify the busy but drown in mindless scrolling. I rush. I waffle. I lay in silence and stare at the ceiling. I wish for more time to make up for the lost time. And time, that tricky thief, mocks my inconsistency by keeping what is hers and giving me the same as everyone else.

I worry about cost.

Is it quality over quantity or quantity over quality? My bank account dictates this answer as I mechanically buy bulk, haggle over cents per ounce, place generic pasta inside my cart, and search my browser for mediocre coupons. How far will I drive to save $.14 on a gallon of gas?

I worry.

I worry about not being enough. About letting my intrinsic potential escape like sand through open fingers of inadequacy and laziness.

I worry.

About making mistakes that can’t be fixed and trapping myself inside self-constructed boxes of has-beens and who-cares.

I worry about finding love and losing love and forgetting the cost of falling in and out of love.

And so I worry.

But sometimes, if only briefly, the wild gale of worries around me settles as the eye of the hurricane passes over me.

And I feel contentment.

And when that happens, I pack the sunshine and wonder into my pocket to hold close to my heart. For strength. For resilience. For the future.

But in the meantime —

I’ll worry.