Radical Rebellion #3: Wash Away the Anxiety

My chest has been tight for three weeks straight.

I can’t remember the last time I took a full breath without my brain immediately filling it with worst-case scenarios. Election fallout. Climate reports. That text I sent that came out wrong. The bill I might have forgotten. The thing I said five years ago that nobody else remembers but my brain won’t let go.

It’s not even about big things anymore. It’s everything. All the time. A constant low-grade hum of what if what if what if that follows me from bed to breakfast to bed again.

And here’s what I’ve learned: You can’t logic your way out of anxiety. You can’t argue with it. You can’t shame yourself into calm. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.

But you know what does? Water.

Not as a metaphor. As an actual experience.

If not eight hours, then take a few minutes. Take a few deep breaths with me and let me help you remember what it feels like when anxiety washes away instead of staying stuck.

Come sit and have a cup of tea with me while we look at the rain fall in the courtyard and know that all is well and we are safe to dream again…

Close your eyes. Or soften your gaze and watch the rain fall.

You’re standing in a courtyard—ancient stone, weathered by centuries of storms just like this one. The rain isn’t violent. It’s steady. Reliable. The kind of rain that makes you want to curl up with tea and a good friend.

Breathe in for four counts. Smell the petrichor—that earth-and-rain scent that means the world is being softened.

Hold for four. Feel the cool mist on your skin, gentle as a whisper.

Exhale for six. Let your shoulders drop. You’re protected here. Sheltered. Safe.

The courtyard walls hold you without closing you in. The rain falls but you’re dry. You can watch the storm without being in it. This is what safety feels like—not the absence of weather, but a place where you can witness it without being swept away.

Notice how soft everything becomes in the rain.

Sharp edges blur. Harsh lines dissolve. The world gets quiet and gentle and kind. Stone that looked hard in sunlight now glistens, welcoming. Leaves that were crisp now bend gracefully under each drop.

This is who you are underneath everything else—soft, gentle, welcome.

Now here’s the beautiful part:

From this protected courtyard—this place where you remember how to be tender—imagine that softness as something you can offer.

Like rain falling on parched ground, you send gentleness outward. To the friend who’s been harsh with themselves. To the neighbor you’ve been at odds with who maybe just needs someone to be soft with them. To the stranger who forgot they deserve kindness. To the whole world that’s been weathered and worn and could use some gentle rain.

You’re not fixing anything. You’re not forcing anything.

You’re just being soft in a hard world. You’re in the courtyard—the protected space where people can rest. You’re being the rain—steady, reliable…Dreamy. Sweet dreams of acceptance, companionship, and love.

That’s the rebellion.