Releasing Worry
It’s embarrassing to admit, but a few weeks ago, a dirty laundry basket and an annoyed 7th grader sent me into a full-blown parental meltdown.
I had asked my son to do a simple chore—something like putting dirty clothes into the laundry basket. He groaned and stomped. His protest was clear: his iPad time was sacred and would not be interrupted with a mundane chore.
I did not keep my composure at his presumed refusal and replied with serious dialogue about how I was unheard and disrespected. I’m sure I wagged a finger and gestured wildly.
His response, uttered with the casual nonchalance of a 7th grader, was a gut punch. ‘It’s not that deep.’
At that instant, cascades of feelings washed over me. I felt hurt. Unseen. A surge of indignation at his perceived laziness and disregard for my request. My thoughts plunged straight into gripping fear and maternal worry: Am I a good parent? Why doesn’t he listen to me? I do so much for him, and this is the thanks I get?
No kind words were going to be spoken in those moments, so I paused. Walked off and out to regroup.
His words echoed in my head. “It’s not that deep.” It took a few long minutes, but when I finally allowed myself to truly hear them, a different perspective emerged. The minor mess wasn’t the problem; the actual issue was my attachment to the idea of what a clean room and a compliant son represented.
The core of his sentiment was right.
Most of our daily discomforts aren’t that deep. Unwashed dishes, unanswered messages, brief traffic snarls: these are not life-altering events. They are minor waves in the ocean of our lives. Yet, we often allow ourselves to clutch our worry, allowing it to ruin our day and cause us to lash out against those we love. We know the line at the grocery store is an illogical reason to tighten our shoulders and clench our jaws, but it feels like the appropriate response at the moment. Our imaginations are wily tricksters in creative storytelling. They thrive on creating worst-case scenarios.
The problem is, taking on that unnecessary stress and worry for the teeny inconveniences has a snowball effect, then we wonder why we’re blinking at the ceiling at 2am, unable to sleep.
This is the essence of one of the five Reiki precepts: Just for today, I will not worry. Translated: My worries are future-fixated concerns that are likely a misuse of my imagination. At this moment—here and now—everything is tolerable.
When we catch our thoughts getting hijacked with worry, practice a pause, then a full breath. Ask the old, sage question: “Will this matter in five years?” For most everyday frustrations, the answer is a firm no. This is our guidance to let this annoyance go before it defines our day.
Do I wish my son had responded differently? Yes, and we’ve discussed this afterwards. Does a sock on the floor matter in five years, and is it worth a blowup with my child? No.
Let’s soften our grip. Let the small things be small. When a minor frustration arises, pause, take a breath, and ask, “Is this really that deep?”
I choose to view my son’s comment not as an act of defiance, but as a gentle, if unintentional, reminder. He gave me a simple, invaluable lesson in letting go.
And for that, I’m grateful.