Perhaps, All Will Be Well

Hello, friends and readers,

I have a question to ask you: How often do you find yourself ruminating in fear? Do what-ifs about the future cause anxiety to constrict your chest and make your heart race? How hard is it to trust that things will generally be okay?

This is a personal question, because my overall bend in life has been to brace for the worst. I learned a long time ago not to really even hope for something good, and certainly not the best, because that’s really too much to expect for someone like me. Instead, I have become an intricate story-weaver, pulling out phrases someone has said, stupid things I’ve done, or a simple facial expression that my brain signals as threat and tells a tale that seems very real in the moment. Though each plot has a different series of convoluted twists and turns, the general conclusions of most stories I tell myself are, I made a mistake. People don’t like me. I’m a burden.

This phase of my life has been one of building safety into all realms—my work, my parenting, my friendships, and my relationship—and for the first time, I can see my fear so very clearly for what it is: A story that may or may not be true about how very NOT okay things are going to turn out. Even if I can logic my way into seeing that there are other possibilities where things can, and usually do, turn out fine (I’m here, right?), my body still feels the sensation designed to mobilize me toward protection.

The process of holding the fear and understanding what lies beneath it, coupled with trying to do something different now, has probably been the defining feature of 2025 for me. Letting go of protections has felt very vulnerable, as they served an important function at a time when I had no other options, and the freefall that comes before I discover what I want to do now is very uncertain.

But every time I release, I find myself landing squarely in trust—in the people who care about me, in my kids, and, most of all, in myself.

I’ve seen an uptick in uncomfortable content on my Instagram account—videos that warn of the dangers of cell phones and screen time, show sweet babies in Gaza who need help, describe the myriad ways I’m wrecking my body and mental health with everyday activities. All of it puts me into threat-detection mode, sending my body down a well worn path of tension and bracing as my thoughts begin spiraling. All of it sends me looking for clues that I am not okay and, moreover, that the world is definitely not okay.

Part of finding safety in my body, in my life, and in the world has been noticing when I’m doing this and, instead of trying to find evidence that something is deeply wrong, pausing to recognize the glimmers of what is good, true, and trustworthy in the here and now. When you’re used to scanning for any sign of threat, this is an uncomfortable practice, a path that your brain is not yet used to travelling. But it is, in my mind, an absolutely essential, non-negotiable habit if we want to call in the kind of world we wish to live in—where we put our attention pulls us toward more of the same.

When I look at the leaders in our world right now, I see people who, underneath it all, are really just terrified children that see the world as threatening and are attempting to find safety and comfort in control. Ironically, trying to control others to feel better will only perpetuate the perception that we are not safe—we use control because we don’t trust, yet trust is required for a true sense of safety. We need to believe in and point to the inherent goodness of others, even when they fall short, if we want to experience the freedom to manage our own choices and voices. We cannot create environments of communal flourishing when we are afraid of everyone around us.

I recently read that physicians aren’t the ones who do the healing; rather, they create an environment for healing by cleaning wounds and pulling the body into alignment so that it can do the work of mending itself. As someone who works with people in a faith setting, this is the best way I can describe my role: I create safe spaces where folks come exactly as they are, and in the process of being together, we clean our heart wounds and pull our souls into authentic alignment so we can do the work of mending ourselves.

Maybe healing isn’t about attacking what we think is wrong, but rather nurturing an environment in which what is good, loving, hopeful, and joyful can thrive. Maybe it’s an invitation to search for evidence that there are many people who are intensely kind and completely lovely, many moments of wonder and delight, many systems that are working toward a common good, so we can orient ourselves in that direction.

What I’ve learned is that creating safe environments that offer healing rarely requires fixing what is wrong; honestly, I’m starting to think it isn’t even about teaching anyone anything. It’s the practice of sitting with the pain of being human, holding space for the messiness, and orienting together towards what is good. Ultimately, it’s a freefall into trust that we will be okay.

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