Caring Doesn't Require Worry
Both of our children spent extended periods of time backpacking independently around the world.
Not for a couple of weeks.
For over a year each, multiple times!
They traveled through developing countries on multiple continents, often in places that many people would consider risky. Every now and then we'd hear from them, and then there might be days or even weeks of silence while they were off the grid.
Friends would often ask, "You must be worried sick."
Honestly, we weren't.
That's not because we didn't love our kids. We love them deeply. It's because I've long believed something that has guided me through many uncertain seasons of life: my worrying couldn't make them any safer. It could only make me more miserable.
Did worried thoughts occasionally cross my mind? Of course.
But when they did, I noticed them. I didn't keep feeding them. I would deliberately redirect my attention because mentally rehearsing every possible tragedy wasn't helping them—or me.
That experience has made me curious about worry.
Why are some people chronic worriers while others aren't?
I've noticed the difference even within our own families. Andrew and I have never been natural worriers, although he'll be the first to admit he can ruminate on things from time to time (though he’s working on that!). Yet on both sides of our family, there are people who seem to live in a near-constant state of worry. If there isn't something obvious to worry about, they almost seem to manufacture something.
One family member once explained it this way.
"I worry because I care."
I understand what she meant.
She absolutely cares.
She also worries.
But those are two different things.
Worry isn't evidence that you care. It's simply one way some people's minds have learned to respond to uncertainty.
Somewhere along the way, many of us quietly absorb the belief that worrying is responsible. We begin to equate anxiety with love, as though not worrying means we're being careless or naive. We convince ourselves that mentally preparing for the worst somehow protects the people we love.
But does it?
If someone you love is on an airplane, worrying doesn't make the flight safer.
If they're driving home in bad weather, worrying doesn't improve the road conditions.
If they're waiting for medical test results, worrying doesn't change the outcome.
The only thing worry reliably changes is your own experience of the present moment.
Ironically, I think what worry often gives us isn't protection at all. It gives us the illusion that we're doing something. Our minds tell us that if we're thinking about every possible danger, we'll somehow be more prepared if it happens.
But life doesn't work that way.
Our brains naturally pay attention to potential threats. That's part of being human. In fact, psychologists have long recognized what's called a negativity bias—our brains are wired to notice potential danger more readily than positive possibilities because, from an evolutionary standpoint, that helped keep our ancestors alive.
The problem is that what we repeatedly think becomes easier for our brains to think again. That's the beauty—and the challenge—of neuroplasticity. Every time we rehearse worried thoughts, we strengthen that mental pathway. Over time, worry stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like our personality.
The encouraging news is that the reverse is also true.
Just as we can train our brains to worry, we can train them not to.
That doesn't mean pretending bad things never happen or forcing yourself to think positively all the time. It simply means learning to recognize when your mind has slipped into rehearsing imagined futures instead of responding to present reality.
When I catch myself beginning to worry, I ask one simple question:
Is there anything useful I can do right now?
If the answer is yes, I do it.
If the answer is no, then continuing to worry isn't solving a problem. It's simply creating unnecessary suffering. I'd rather redirect my attention toward something that actually deserves my energy.
I've come to believe that chronic worry isn't really about love. It's about our relationship with uncertainty.
Some people automatically interpret uncertainty as danger. Others simply recognize it as uncertainty. That one difference shapes how they experience almost every challenge life brings.
Life has always been uncertain. We were never promised otherwise. Peace doesn't come from eliminating uncertainty. It comes from changing how we respond to it.
For me, that response is grounded in trust.
Trust that the people I love are capable.
Trust that if something difficult does happen, we'll deal with it when it happens.
And trust that I don't need to suffer today over something that may never happen tomorrow.
Caring has never required worry.
You can love someone deeply without living in a constant state of anxiety. You can prepare wisely when action is needed, then let the rest go. In fact, I'd argue that's a far healthier expression of love than carrying the weight of imagined catastrophes everywhere you go.
Our thoughts develop patterns over time.
The wonderful thing is that patterns can change.
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