The One Who Worries

Why we worry about everything (and how to stop trying to stop)

My natural instinct is to worry about everything.

I worry about the future, the emails I haven’t answered, the things I said three days ago, the things I didn’t say five years ago, is this tooth pain? Have I slept enough or will I get old and die soon?

And then I sprinkle a little worry on the top of all that: I’m definitely worrying about everything way too much.

If you relate — hi, pull up a chair, here’s a KitKat and a cuppa — you’re not alone.

Why do we worry so much?

Psychologists have this term — compensatory control — which basically means that, when life feels uncertain, we try to control something — anything — to feel safe again.

We can get stuck in doomscrolling, passing up opportunities, or poking fun at people.

Maybe we shop too much, binge watch crap telly, or focus way too much on our big, shiny, future goals.

Or perhaps we hoard information, we get stuck in toxic productivity, planning every inch of our days, leaving no time for rest.

And worry, for me at least, fits so neatly into this concept. If I worry enough, I get to have more control over everything. It gives the illusion of doing something; if I can just think about it hard enough, I’ll prevent whatever awful thing my brain is predicting.

But, as the Stoics tell us, we basically have zero control of anything and we should just shut up whining about it all.

And from a nervous system point of view, maybe we’ve been taught that in order to stay safe, we need to manage uncertainty. It’s a strategy — a sweet, exhausting, overprotective strategy — born from the belief that being in control equals being okay.

And underneath it all is that sticky, familiar voice that’s probably come from a messy childhood: “If I can just handle everything perfectly, maybe I’ll finally be enough.”

How to stop worrying

“Ah, just don’t worry about it.”

Okay. Thanks for that golden advice, off I skip with lighter shoulders and a less-messy head, ne’er to worry again.

If only it were that easy. And I’m not actually here to help you stop worrying forever — I’m definitely not qualified for that (and this stuff goes deep). But we can start somewhere, and that somewhere is just by asking ourselves some questions.

Let’s get into that thing you’re worrying about at the moment. Big or small, bring it to mind. And let’s imagine I’m sat right in front of you. I’d ask you to not think too much, but get down into your body:

1. What are you feeling right now?

You might say “anxious,” or “tight,” or “ashamed about all the worry.”

Maybe you notice tension, or heaviness, or even pain. That’s okay. The first step is noticing. Truly. Say hello to interoception — the first step in nervous system regulation.

2. Can we stay with that feeling for a moment without fixing anything?

Our suffering isn’t the emotion itself, but it comes from our resistance to feeling it.

Control, worry, escapism, perfectionism — they’re all ways of not feeling something that once felt unbearable. Powerlessness. Shame. Grief. Helplessness. Heartbreak.

But let me say it again in case you’re skimming: our suffering isn’t the emotion itself, but it comes from our resistance to feeling it.

So allow yourself to feel tight, heavy, sad, in pain. Become curious about the sensation. What happens when you welcome it in?

3. What would happen if you didn’t worry? What feeling would you have to face?

If we’re avoiding feeling something, we’re avoiding feeling everything.

That worrying part of myself — she’s not my enemy. She’s the part of me who learned that safety came from being hyper-aware, over-prepared, and endlessly vigilant.

She’s the one who cares so deeply she can’t bear the idea of something going wrong.

So instead of trying to shut her up, I’ve been trying to meet her.

Because we don’t need to stop worrying, we just need to love the one who worries.

Sometimes that looks like sitting on the sofa, hand on heart, saying quietly:

“I know you’re scared. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Sometimes it’s grounding in my body — breathing, moving, humming — to show my nervous system that right now, in this moment, we’re safe.

Sometimes I tell the little-girl version of myself who’s brilliant at worrying to hide behind my legs — adult Chloe got this.

And sometimes, honestly, it’s just making a cup of tea and laughing at the sheer drama of my own brain.

Repeat after me: “I’m not broken”

If you’ve been worrying your way through life, I want you to know: you’re not broken, lazy, or weak. You’re a human whose brain and body found a clever way to stay safe in an uncertain world.

But maybe — just maybe — you’re safe enough now to start trusting something else.

To swap control for curiosity.

To replace self-criticism with compassion.

To let the world wobble a bit and discover that you can wobble with it.

Because you’ve always been enough, my friend. Or, perhaps to flip this on its head: it doesn’t matter and you’re not enough — this has been enormously freeing for me.

Whether you’re productive, calm, in-control, or having a meltdown about not having the right onions for that Gordon Ramsey recipe.

Especially then.

So here’s to the worriers — the brave, exhausted, beautiful folk trying so hard to be okay. May we all learn to love the part of us that’s been trying to keep us safe all along.

---

Let me know if this resonated (we could get worry-club t-shirts or something).