Lately I’ve struggled with worry, especially worrying about the people I love most. How will my daughter make her way into the world? How long will my parents live? The list goes on.
I rarely worry about me. I try to do what I can with each day and hope that everything I did today helps soften tomorrow.
I know that worry is full of empty promise. It tempts with the illusion that we can predict the future, yet our inability to be certain of the future is a great mercy. If we knew all of the hard times ahead, would we want to go on? The bad may be endured because good surprises us along the way.
It is possible that I worry most about the people I love because I cannot control their fate like I can my own, and I am not quite ready to accept this fact.