I want all the hours back I've spent worrying about things that never happened.
I'm not even asking to use them for new activities, like marathoning Gilmore Girls or reading a magazine. I want them back to remember that they amounted to nothing.
I'm a worrier through and through. I stress each self-inflicted deadline and special aspiration. I have dreams about running out of time to study for finals that don't exist.
But the thing is, worrying often serves me well. I respond quickly to crises, because I've already thought through them in my head.
In fact, I'm often tempted to describe my worrying brain as an asset. I work harder because I worry about failing; I dream bigger because I worry Plan A wasn't impressive enough.
And yet worrying is exhausting. It saps my energy on good days and drives me to tears on bad ones.
It takes up hours I could have spent marathoning Gilmore Girls or reading magazines.
I've been talking more about worrying lately, trying to rob it of its strength.
When I got amazing work news last week, I admitted to a friend that happy developments always bring with them a sense of impending doom. I worry that the universe likes to keep me on a level playing field, and that I've flown too high.
When I say something like that out loud (or type it out in a text), it seems less daunting. The worry drains out of me, clearing up space for laughs and lust and love.
It's my own little mindfulness habit, robbing the worry on my doorstep of its power before it makes itself at home.
I want to be rid of the bad parts of worrying. Let's call it spring cleaning.
No more agonizing over how I sound in an email. No more stress about whether I seem charming to strangers.
I will accept being a good planner. I will accept pushing myself to work harder.
But those hours I spend worrying will be mine again.
I'm not even asking to use them for new activities, like marathoning Gilmore Girls or reading a magazine. I want them back to remember that they amounted to nothing.
I'm a worrier through and through. I stress each self-inflicted deadline and special aspiration. I have dreams about running out of time to study for finals that don't exist.
But the thing is, worrying often serves me well. I respond quickly to crises, because I've already thought through them in my head.
In fact, I'm often tempted to describe my worrying brain as an asset. I work harder because I worry about failing; I dream bigger because I worry Plan A wasn't impressive enough.
And yet worrying is exhausting. It saps my energy on good days and drives me to tears on bad ones.
It takes up hours I could have spent marathoning Gilmore Girls or reading magazines.
I've been talking more about worrying lately, trying to rob it of its strength.
When I got amazing work news last week, I admitted to a friend that happy developments always bring with them a sense of impending doom. I worry that the universe likes to keep me on a level playing field, and that I've flown too high.
When I say something like that out loud (or type it out in a text), it seems less daunting. The worry drains out of me, clearing up space for laughs and lust and love.
It's my own little mindfulness habit, robbing the worry on my doorstep of its power before it makes itself at home.
I want to be rid of the bad parts of worrying. Let's call it spring cleaning.
No more agonizing over how I sound in an email. No more stress about whether I seem charming to strangers.
I will accept being a good planner. I will accept pushing myself to work harder.
But those hours I spend worrying will be mine again.
"And every day, the world will drag you by the hand, yelling, 'This is important! And this is important! You need to worry about this! And this! And this!' And each day, it's up to you to yank your hand back, put it on your heart and say, "No. This is what's important.'"
Iain Thomas
Iain Thomas