A Limit to My Worry

Some of my favorite news stories lately have been the ones about groups of people who are adapting fast and relatively easily to this crisis. Germaphobes: vindicated at last. People with obsessive-compulsive tendencies: way ahead of the curve on hand-washing. Disaster preppers: organizing their stashes of canned goods and trying not to gloat. Anxious people: finding themselves in good company. Introverts: cozy as can be. I can relate to all of these ways of being; I’ve always been a worrier. And of course, this pandemic has delivered all sorts of things for me to lose sleep over. My worries are usually future-oriented, but now that so much of the future seems uncertain, something unexpected has happened – I’m actually worrying less. Worry is a kind of prediction. And I definitely did not predict anything like this, so worry has become less compelling. As more and more of my plans get canceled or indefinitely postponed, my concerns have telescoped down to getting through the day safely, comfortably, and in good health, figuring out ways to help my loved ones do the same. Anything bigger than that is on hold. I can’t remember a time when my calendar has been emptier, the pages smooth and untroubled. Today is enough.


Location: Baltimore, MD

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