Breaking the Habit of Worrying

It is possible to train ourselves to break the habit of worrying. For me that training began with awareness—and mindfully returning again and again to the present moment. 

The favored habitats of worry seem to be the past and the non-existent future. Things are peaceful, or at least manageable, in the present time. The present is a gift and by far the most comfortable place for me to live.

Worry will knock at our door from time to time, but there’s no need to invite it to stay for dinner. Instead, we can focus on breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly and deeply. Then get busy! Exercise, say a prayer, pull weeds, clean the kitchen floor or whatever else needs cleaning. 

Practice this system until you have no need or inclination to worry. Worrying is one of the few sorry habits I’ve been able to break in this lifetime. 

So can you.

In my latest book, Shaking Off Gravity, I write about worry: “Unless it's used to solve a problem or accomplish a task, worry is a waste of time and energy. Like a rocking chair, it gives a sense of forward motion but gets you nowhere.”

Worry: “Like a rocking chair, it gives a sense of forward motion but gets you nowhere.”

—Lucinda Shirley

In fact, not worrying and taking a positive attitude about your health, even if you’re dealing with major health issues, can have a profound impact on your life and the lives of those around you. Your attitude cannot change reality, but it can certainly help you accept it! 

As this article highlights, taking a positive attitude about your aging can increase your lifespan by up to seven and a half years according to researchers. The skill and practice of abating your worry should be at the top of your tool box when you’re working toward any goal—better heath included. 

A True Story About Worry 

I’d like to share a true story about one of my friends. We’ve all been down this rabbit hole, haven’t we? Let me know if you’ve had a similar experience. So often sharing our fears and worry with each other helps to lessen them. 

***

It was into her mother’s next-to-last decline that Louise claimed Sunday afternoons for herself. She had been turning herself inside out to grant her mother’s wish to leave her home “feet first.” No nursing home. 

Over time Louise facilitated many a wish for her mother, just as she had for the hedonist at the office where she worked on his behalf five days a week. He didn’t know what he’d do without her. 

When her mother began to need more hands-on attention, Louise hired a full-time caregiver for weekdays. After lunch on Sundays, a different caregiver would come. 

Her mother liked the weekday caregiver well enough, but she looked forward to Sunday afternoons with Adele, a cheerful plus-size woman, an enthusiastic talker, ever determined to entertain. Sometimes Louise would hear the two of them laughing, a blessing and benediction as she closed the front door on the way to her Sunday world. 

For Louise, Sunday afternoons were sacred as any church service. There was reverence and comfort in the rituals: Paying the price of admission and receiving her ticket. Choosing her candy at the concession stand. Ordering a small popcorn (no butter), a medium Coke.

The small popcorn always seemed closer to large and the Coke closer to small. She’d give her ticket to the man who would tear it into neat halves, smiling at her without fail as he returned her half, “Enjoy your movie.” Her movie. She would smile back and adjust her posture. 

***

Louise was certain that worrying had narrowed her mother’s life and worn it thin. Some of the worrying latched on to Louise who wondered sometimes how she could bear her mother’s passing, how she would ever manage life without her when that time came. 

They always had been close, sharing the family home in the years since Louise graduated college. Living without her mother-friend-companion was inconceivable. She wasn’t sure she could handle that reality.

When her mother did pass on, Louise felt stunned, then automatically began making arrangements. She accepted condolences, orchestrated a memorial her mother would have liked, and wrote proper thank you notes for memorial gifts, flowers and funeral food. Not only did she handle it, she did it all graciously.

After a few weeks, Louise realized she hadn’t cried. And that became worrisome. A friend reminded her that she and her mother had a long goodbye; likely she had done a lot of grieving while caring for her mother, especially in the final weeks. But she worried anyway and felt some guilt about not shedding a tear.

When friends, neighbors, and peripheral family shared stories about her mother, a major theme was how much her mother had worried. How she made rules for herself to feel safe. Never being out alone after dark. Refusing to consider air travel. Wearing sensible shoes, always. 

Louise experienced the pain of loss, but along with unfamiliar feelings of freedom, a sense of relief surprised her. She had waves of grief sometimes, but before too long, she was going about her life, beginning to notice good things that happened.

Louise’s Sunday movies continued. She enjoyed even the mediocre ones, in the darkened theater, holding on to her popcorn like a life raft that would rescue her from martyrdom. Sometimes she would ask a friend or co-worker to come along, and they’d extend the afternoon with a glass of wine or visit a coffee shop to talk about the movie.

“All the things that you fear, at the most they mean nothing.”

—John Denver

Late one Sunday night Louise woke, trying to ignore the need to get up for the bathroom. She lay there warm and half-asleep, fingering the lace on her nightgown when she felt a small lump on her left breast. 

Did a hard lump mean the worst or that it probably wasn’t serious? She couldn’t remember. 

She thought of the if’s and if then’s, met with her doctor in her mind who of course referred her to an oncologist, had surgery, and learned the cancer was late stage. She wouldn’t be around much longer. 

She thought about the memorial she would be planning. 

She felt a gnawing dread growing, imagining the lump growing, as well. 

She barely had begun to enjoy her life, finally learning to savor it. Bulbs she had planted in the fall soon would be blooming. She wanted more time to bloom, too. 

She was feeling tears on her cheeks and an urgency to get to the bathroom. As she switched on the bathroom light, something hit the floor. 

Louise looked down, then sat down. 

The little breast lump mocked her from the cold tile. It was a Milk Dud, candy of choice at the movie that afternoon.

Back in the warmth of her bed, Louise fell asleep laughing.