The last couple years, I feel like I’ve been scared of everything. This fear seems to be, in part, a function of grief. The grief of losing my father in 2020, the grief of my mom having a stroke in 2021. The grief of seeing the country I love move in terribly inhuman directions. The grief of a few stormy years of marriage, followed by the toil of reclaiming peace amid the storm.
I’m tired. I shut down a couple years ago. I’m un-shutting down now. Opening back up.
Starting to check email again (I’ve been afraid of receiving bad news or learning I’ve done something wrong.)
Starting to go on social media again (I’ve been afraid my friends are upset with me for various, vague reasons.)
Starting to ponder my career again (I’ve been afraid that I couldn’t work out the scheduling of my work with my family.)
Things are less scary, but the tracks that the fear laid inside me are still tracks that my train is tempted to travel on.
I pick up my train. I set it under the covers and I let it rest. Once it has rested, I set it on the new track. It moves forward slowly.
Michelle Folk Johnson 