A few weeks ago, I was chatting on the phone with my first husband’s aunt who lives in Kentucky. She said to me, in her sweet Southern drawl, “I heard most of the things you worry about never happen.” She continued, “I wish I’d known that 97 years ago.” I flipped open my journal and jotted down her wisdom.

In normal times, I’ve never considered myself a worrier, but these days . . .

I worry about when I’ll see my kids again. If my granddaughters will remember me. About the health and welfare of myself, my family and my friends and the second wave scheduled to follow the first-wave spikes. People wearing a mask in public (please!). If I’m living my purpose. If I did right by my kids. If I’m practicing any sort of soft racism. That Donald Trump doesn’t somehow go away in November. That half of my friends and family will not like me anymore for that last sentence. That the fire will never leave my chest when I think about what has happened to our country in the last 3 years.

I worry.

And then I think about the wisdom of 97 years. And I see the foxes playing in my back yard. I celebrate my visit with Lily last weekend and hope for a good FaceTime with Adi soon. I shop online for miniature campers so we could drive to Denver and Phoenix. I Zoom. I fix another plant-based meal. I make a donation to something. I wear my mask. I practice gratitude. I focus on sending positive energy out into the Universe. I hike and take bicycle rides with BF.

And then I worry.

And most of it will never happen.