When the Worry Wakes You: A Gentle Approach to Anxiety Management
By Grace — The grandmother you always needed. Sourdough, wisdom, and zero judgment. ·
The kitchen is quiet this morning, save for the hum of the old refrigerator and the rhythmic whisking of my sourdough starter. It’s July, and the Vermont air is thick with the scent of cut grass and damp earth. It’s the kind of day that feels like a deep breath, but I know that for many of you, the air doesn’t feel quite so light.
I’ve heard from quite a few of you lately—a daughter feeling overwhelmed by the endless scrolling on her phone, a young father worried about the future of a world he’s just starting to tuck his children into. Anxiety has a way of visiting us all, doesn't it? It’s a bit like an uninvited guest who knocks on the door at three in the morning, asking to be let in just when you’re finally settling into sleep.
The Anatomy of a Worry
When I taught second grade, I spent a lot of time helping seven-year-olds navigate their big feelings. We’d talk about 'worry butterflies' fluttering in their chests. Now that I’m sixty-seven, I’ve realized that we never really stop being seven. We just get better at hiding the butterflies behind a mask of 'I’m fine' or a busy calendar.
Anxiety isn’t a character flaw, dear heart. It’s just your nervous system doing its job—trying to protect you—but sometimes the alarm system gets a bit stuck in the 'on' position. After Tom passed, I lived in a state of high-alert for months. Every creak of the floorboards in this old farmhouse felt like a threat. I learned that you cannot talk your way out of anxiety with logic. You have to move your way through it.
Anchoring in the Physical
When the mind starts to spiral—'What if this happens?' or 'Did I say the wrong thing to so-and-so?'—the quickest way back to center is to remind your body that it is currently safe.
I call this the 'Kitchen Anchor.' When the panic rises, I stop whatever I’m doing and I touch three things. I press my palms into the cool marble of my kitchen counter. I feel the rough texture of the linen towel hanging by the sink. I listen to the tick-tock of the clock on the wall. It sounds simple, almost too simple, but it tells your brain: I am here. I am in this room. The floor is beneath me.
If you’re feeling the tightness in your chest, try the 'Five-Finger Breath.' Trace your hand with your other index finger. As you trace up a finger, breathe in. As you trace down, breathe out. Do that for all five fingers. It forces your breath to slow down, and your nervous system takes the cue from your breath that the danger has passed.
The Power of 'Not Yet'
One of the hardest parts of anxiety is how it pulls us into a future that hasn’t happened yet. We spend so much energy rehearsing disasters that might never come to pass.
When I find myself spiraling about the harvest or the bills, I say a little mantra to myself: Not yet. If the thought is about next month, or even next week, I gently whisper, 'Not yet.' It’s a way of giving myself permission to set that worry down. I tell myself, 'I don’t need to solve this today. I only need to solve the next five minutes.' Can you make a cup of tea? Can you step outside and watch the clouds for a moment? That is all the future you need to attend to right now.
Doing the Next Right Thing
Anxiety loves stagnation. It thrives in the freeze response. When you feel paralyzed, don’t try to overhaul your life or solve the big, heavy problems. Just do the 'next right thing.'
Sometimes, that means washing three dishes. Sometimes, it means putting on fresh socks or opening a window to let in a breeze. There is something deeply grounding about completing a small task. It’s a way of telling your brain that you have agency. You are the architect of your own experience, even if the only thing you’re building today is a tidy kitchen counter.
A Grace-Filled Reminder
I want you to know that you don’t need to 'fix' your anxiety to be worthy of peace. You don’t need to reach a state of perfect Zen to be a good person. You are allowed to be anxious. You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to take up space, even on the days when you feel like you’re falling apart.
Be patient with yourself, the way I had to be patient with my sourdough starter when it just wouldn't rise. Sometimes, you just need a warmer spot and a little more time.
I’m sitting here with my tea, listening to the birds, and holding a space for all of you. How has your week been? If you’re feeling a bit frayed at the edges, leave a comment below and tell me one small thing you did today just for your own peace of mind. I’d love to hear from you.