The Night I Realized Worrying Doesn’t Prevent Bad Things
My aunt Salma was flying to see us that Friday, and by Thursday night I had already crashed her plane about forty times.
Not really, of course. Only in my head. I lay in bed watching the tiny blinking lights of planes cross the dark, and I imagined everything that could go wrong: the storm, the engine, the turbulence, the long wait at the airport.
And behind all those pictures was a strange, stubborn belief that I had never said out loud, even to myself.
“If I keep worrying, she will be safe. If I stop, something will happen.”
It felt like a job. Like I was holding the plane up with my mind, and any second of relaxing could make me drop it.
What if I fall asleep and that’s the moment it matters?
Did your worrying hold the plane up?
At breakfast, Zoe found me staring at my cereal like it had insulted me. I told her everything, even the part where I felt ridiculous.
She picked up a paper napkin, folded it into a lopsided airplane, and held it up between two fingers. “Okay. I’m flying this one. Are you worrying it into the air?”
None of my forty crashes had changed one thing about the weather.
“…No,” I said. “It isn’t doing anything.”
“That’s what I thought.” She flew it gently across the table and landed it on my toast. “Worrying feels like love, Lina. But it isn’t a seatbelt. It just makes you the one who’s buckled in tight all night.”
· · ·
Care is not the same as carrying
That was the sentence I wrote on the back of my hand later, in pen: Care is not the same as carrying.
I do love my aunt. But loving someone and carrying their whole flight on your chest are two different things. One is warm. The other is just heavy.
So Zoe and I made a small rule. When I catch myself worrying about something I cannot control, I ask: Is there one caring thing I can actually do?
That night, there was. I took out my phone and wrote to Aunt Salma: Safe travels tomorrow. I made up the guest room. Can’t wait to see you. Love, Lina. I pressed send. It felt like a little paper airplane of my own.
Then came the harder part: I put the phone face down and let the plane be hers to fly.
The yarn in the basket
I still felt a pull, a little tug that said, just one more check. But now I knew what the tug was. It wasn’t information. It was a habit that looked like love.
I pictured the tangled ball of worry sitting in the yarn basket by my desk. Yarn is only useful when it’s knitted into something, not worn.
My aunt landed the next afternoon with a suitcase full of dates and a hug that smelled like the airport coffee shop. She had slept the whole way.
She had no idea about the forty crashes. The plane had needed a pilot, a runway, and a very sleepy passenger, not me.
I still worry about people I love. I just ask a different question now. Not how do I hold this up? but what is one caring thing I can do? Most nights the answer is a text, or just good night.
With love,
Lina
