The other day, I found myself walking quickly to the subway in the worry that I wouldn’t make it to work on time even though I’d left around eight minutes before my precisely calculated standard departure time that allows me around fifteen minutes of wiggle room. And still, I hurried along the sidewalk, weaving between people in the hopes that the extra two feet I could gain would protect me. If I felt silly, I reminded myself of all the times I didn’t hurry and missed the train, a train I would have caught if I’d walked through the red light when there were no cars coming.
I continued down into the subway station, holding my breath, even though the screen at the entrance of the subway indicated I had four minutes before my train arrived. Still, I dashed down into the station, thinking that maybe it takes me four minutes to descend the two flights of stairs to the platform. Or that maybe the train will arrive early. Or that maybe my faulty phone will slow me down and the tap-payment won’t work.
I reached the platform with two minutes to spare before the train arrived and overall still 10 minutes ahead of schedule. And yet, my chest was still tight, anticipating the next obstacle I’d face, the next unknown quantity — seating. When the subway came, would I find a spot to sit? Would it be jam-packed? Would there be a weird person I’d have to avoid making eye-contact with but not in an obvious way that might trigger them?
Each new person who arrived at the stop was a competitor, someone who could take away my seat. Someone who might deserve it more if they are old or pregnant or a child. Someone who doesn’t care about courtesy and gets on the subway before letting others off, securing a seat in that decidedly un-sportsman-like way.
When the subway came to a stop and I saw the plethora of seating so that everyone would get a place, I still didn’t relax. I began pondering whether the coffee cart I grab a drink from before work would offer only burned coffee by this time of the day.
So, instead of getting an advance on my worry, I could let the moment play out and deal with the stressful consequences, if they manifest, instead of pre-loading stress.
That’s when I realized I live my life in a series of checkpoints I need to go through before I can be calm, only to find that as soon as I pass through one, there’s another facing me, turning relaxation into a destination I cannot possibly reach. It is essentially a relay race I’m running, whereby I constantly hand the baton off to myself over and over as each segment of the race is done and I move onto the next. From being late to work, to missing the train, to getting a seat, to my potentially burnt coffee. I never find ease or peace. I am always anticipating the next concern.
I’m of two minds on this quandary. Part of me isn’t surprised at the realization that my life is a series of links bound together to create my daily routine, forged in worry. I have always known that for me, anticipating all the scenarios is soothing. If I can prepare for the realistic and the unrealistic, if I can take into consideration all the lessons I learned previously (like the train coming early), then I can handle things when a particular set of events plays out. I’m not left floundering for a solution as events unfold.
However, another part of me, a decidedly practical one, is less willing to condone this waste of energy. As I age and resources start to feel scarcer, I am less willing to squander energy simply so I can give my mind what is, essentially, a pacifier. I’ve told myself that by having a little worry constantly, I can be prepped for every scenario and avoid a big lump of stress if something unexpected happens. The truth is, though, the small stresses I create as warm-ups are guaranteed, whereas the big stresses that might occur are not.
For instance, deciding to fret about missing an important call I was expecting while I’m in the bathroom and don’t have my phone on me is 100 percent guaranteed to happen since I’m instigating that fear. But by assuming they will not call in those three minutes and that, if they do, then I can worry about the consequences, the potential for anxiety drops significantly. What are the chances that they call in those minutes or that I’m not able to make it to the phone? So, instead of getting an advance on my worry, I could let the moment play out and deal with the stressful consequences, if they manifest, instead of pre-loading stress.
Clearly, between constant, sustained anxiety and the potential for it, one of those is better. But how am I supposed to switch to this healthier way of life? How am I to release myself of the habit I’ve developed of non-stop worry? I’m not sure. The old me (or better, the one I’m trying to make obsolete) would agonize over how to accomplish this. In an effort to change, then, I’m not going to proffer up solutions or theories on how to do this. I’ll just walk into the dark and see what happens.
