Living With It – Living Through It

Photo by Stormseeker on Unsplash

I think it’s always been there, lurking just under the surface, waiting for a reason to swallow me up.

That fight, flight, or freeze automatic response was always there. It never really left me, shaped by the childhood trauma I endured. It became my modus operandi - always at the ready. Just in case...

My body and brain learned to adapt, to mask the fear so I could appear “fine” on the outside.

“Just fine,” my grandmother would say, placing her warm palm on my back, rubbing slow circles. “You are just fine.”

But I wasn’t.

It took years of therapy, workshops, meditation, books, and relentless self-work to understand and begin to untangle myself from that fear response. Even in my 40s and 50s, as a mother and a wife, it could still rise up unexpectedly, reducing me to that helpless little girl again.

With support—my husband’s steady love and the guidance of trained professionals—I gradually returned to myself. I stopped pretending to be “fine” when I wasn’t. Eventually, I didn’t have to pretend at all, because I truly was okay. I could live in the moment without bracing for what might come next.

It was a long journey. And it was liberating.

Now, as I approach my 65th birthday, I find myself a grandmother (my official title is “Mimi”) and deeply grateful. I honor my past, even the painful parts. They shaped me into the resilient, compassionate, and wise woman I am today.

I even wrote and published a memoir – Diamonds in the Dirt: Stories from a Junkyard Girl, owning it all and putting my story on the page for anyone to read.

That, too, was liberating. A bold confrontation with fear. A big, unapologetic fuck you to the fear that made me doubt who I was.

And now?

Now, things are not fine. And pretending won’t help.

That old familiar feeling is stirring again. Quiet but present. And it scares me.

At night, when I usually reflect on the good by thinking about something from my day that I am grateful for, the dark thoughts manage to creep in. Subtle at first. With little worries like “Did I turn off the stove?” “Did I lock the door?”

However, these thoughts have recently intensified. Fueled by the news, by uncertainty, by speculation.

The relentless fight, flight, or freeze instinct is back.

I feel it deep in my gut, in my breath, in my buzzing mind.

The thought spiral. Thoughts I can even believe I am having:

Do we need an escape plan?
How would I reach the kids if the grid went down?
Should we buy a house overseas?
Could we obtain dual citizenship through Rich’s great-great-grandfather’s Austrian ancestry?

Are you kidding me, Laurie? What the hell???

It’s harder now to stay grounded in the present when the future feels so shaky, when the fear isn't just personal, but collective, national, global.

What will this mean for my children? My granddaughter? For all of us? For the world?

Even my meditation practice feels like a battle. Ten minutes stretch into eternity. I fidget. I can’t settle. My breath feels tight. My mind—unruly.

This is not good.

And I know I’m not alone. Fear is thick in the air, circling all of us like a worldwide hurricane.

News commentators. Social media spirals. Urgent texts. Cries for funding. Requests to save democracy. Heartbreaking GoFundMe pages for those lost in the cracks—disaster, illness, need. Fear upon fear.

So, I go back to my tools. The ones that have worked before.

I breathe. I unplug. I take news breaks. My husband and I volunteer at food banks. I support spaces where people can gather. I return to community.

Slowly, patiently, I adapt. I soften into the moment. I remind myself: fear lies. Fear’s goal is to unhinge me from the present into the vast, dark unknown. Fear prepares for something that may never come.

I read fiction. Poetry. Memoirs. I show up for too many book clubs because I’ve joined too many book clubs..

I clear clutter. Donate. Nest. I make our home more comfortable – more “ours”.

I connect with loved ones by traveling when I can to see family. Plan bucket list adventures. I meet friends for walks and coffee. I host gatherings, plan community benefit concerts. Plan to celebrate my sibling’s milestone birthdays with special gatherings.

I hike. I rest.

I sit and watch the world go by. On my porch. In the park. At the lake. Sometimes, I sit in my car, softly gazing out the window.

I garden. I write.

I whisper to my plants. I watch the sunrise—and often the sunset. I listen to birdsong. I find beauty not just in nature, but I see it in other people, even in myself.

I am living. Loving. Being.

This is my antidote to the fear swirling around us like a tornado.

At first, I worried I was avoiding reality—burying my head in the sand. Maybe I am. Maybe not.

That’s the thing—I don’t know. None of us do.

So instead, I focus on what I DO know.

I know that living fully, here and now, is the only way I can face whatever’s ahead.

That breathing deeply, loving fiercely, and staying present are the tools I trust.

Let it come.

The openness and freedom of my breath fuel my defiance.

With these practices, with my breath, I will live through it, just like I’m living through today.

And maybe, just maybe, if my grandmother were here, she’d place her warm palm on my back, rub those slow, familiar circles, and whisper again:

“You are just fine.”

This time, I’d believe her.