Worry

“No one can pray and worry at the same time.” (Philippians 4:6-7)

Happy Monday. And Happy Memorial Day. And for anyone reading this who is either in the military or lost someone in the military, my heart is with you today.

And every day.

Thank you to everyone who has called, texted, sent gifts and said prayers for me and my co-worker who is still unconscious. I am so thankful for your love and support.

I brought my daughter and her three friends to the beach this weekend. It was a trip we had planned long before the accident. They had all finished a week of finals and were so excited. I was a nervous wreck, but the years are short, and my time with my daughter is limited. In two years, she will be headed off to college, and I didn’t want to disappoint her and cancel the trip. So off we went. We left Saturday and got home this afternoon.

I want to tell you that I was present, soaking up the sun and spending time with my daughter and I did do most of those things — I loved seeing her and her friends laugh and spend time together. They are a fantastic group of independent young women, smart and funny, beautiful and loyal. But I was incredibly anxious all weekend, hypervigilant on the drive to and from the beach, nervous when they swam in the gulf, and I had to stop my overprotective brain of thinking of the worst.

I wanted to come on here today and tell you all about the cool things I discovered and share them with you. But I would be inauthentic if I did that. I would be lying if I said anything other than this: I’m struggling.

As I navigate this new normal, I’m going to share with you one thing: What I’m learning.

The quote that I included in this piece is a reminder that you can’t pray and worry at the same time. But I assure you, you can pray, then worry, and pray some more and worry even more. It’s a cycle I am perfecting.

It has been 10 days since the accident and in those 10 days I have done all the things to move the pendulum in my favor. Doctor. Check. Therapist. Check. Life coach. Check. Deacon. Check. Lean into the community. Check. Reach out to friends and family. Check. Stare at the ocean. Check. Set intentions. Check. Walk. Check. Talk about it. Check. Talk about it some more. Check. Check. Check.

I have checked off all of the boxes, and I’m still struggling. I. Am. Struggling.

When I’m not fearful, I’m tearful. They come in bursts, like a freshly open valve on a fire hydrant, messy and fast, and I can’t stop them. My eyes are raw, and my cheeks hurt, and I’m trying to honor this unpredictable process of whatever this is. I can write what I feel better than I can say it, so I’m coming here to do that. When I started sharing my work publicly back in November, I promised vulnerability and authenticity so here it is. I feel like a shell of my former self, like a locust, my outer layer split down the middle, cracked open, completely raw.

I am trying so hard to lean into the faith I found last week. But it’s hard to find it again. It feels like it’s made for everyone but me. I’m grasping at my family like they are objects, telling them to be careful whenever they leave the house, nervous and controlling. In a room full of people, I feel completely alone, and it’s that feeling that is my greatest fear. There is a cloud over my head, and I keep repeating the same quote in my head, “Every storm runs out of rain.”

As the sun set last night over the ocean, and I looked up at the clouds, I asked for some sort of sign that this was going to pass, that I would feel better, that my co-worker would heal, and as I picked my phone up to take a pic of the brilliant colors, I saw a squadron of pelicans flying in a line across the bursting sky.

But one was flying alone.

I put my phone down after snapping that picture, my fingers trembling as tears blurred the screen. The sight of that lone pelican, struggling to keep pace, had wedged itself deep in my chest, a raw ache of sadness and understanding.

But then, something shifted. The others, mid-flight, slowed down, hesitating in the sky. They waited. Wings stretching, bodies adjusting, they gave space for their lost companion to fall in line.

In that moment, I felt something shift inside of me, a tiny sliver of hope. As the rogue pelican found its place, I let myself believe, just for a second, that maybe, just maybe, I would find mine, too.

May 26, 2025