Worrier to Warrior

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.















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