My grandmother was a worry wart. The term may sound archaic now, but in granny’s day, worry wart was as well known as stress is today. As a good granddaughter, I diligently followed in her footsteps, wrapping her mantle around me like a wool blanket. I worried about everything. I worried if my parents would return when they went out for the evening and if my knees would knock during my oral report at school.
As I grew, I began to have grown up worries. Would I ever get married? Would I ever get a job? Would I survive breast cancer and the recession? Would my cat ever learn to use the cat box?
The blanket of worry became comfortable and safe. I didn’t want to leave it even when I began to suffocate from its heaviness. I carried worry around with me everywhere and it hindered my perception of life. My grandmother would have been proud. I was a true worry wart or in today’s vernacular, stressed out to the max.
But I had a choice. Don’t we always? I could be a worrier or change a couple letters and become a warrior. Of course, it’s not that simple. Change never is, but I had hope. I could throw off that blanket, find a room with a clear view of life and begin to conquer my fears and worries one step at a time.
Today, I will no longer be anonymous. This warrior has a name.