A Small Light, Left on

My mind likes to worry. Not me—my mind. If I had it my way, everything would be peachy.

Is my mind valid in these worries? I'd have to say yes.

I remember when my anxiety was something to put in its place. Some of the fears I had were genuinely out there, but distant. Like possibilities that could be named, then set aside.

But now these fears, these worries... many of them are now a reality. And new ones keep arriving like weather on the horizon.

I'm a sensitive person, which means I have feelings about nearly everything. It's tiring, being this way. But it's also made me more attuned to subtle nuances and patterns—small shifts in a room, a tone, a story, or the way something doesn't quite add up.

How do world events feel to a sensitive person?

Like the planet is shrinking.
Like if I take in one more painful headline, my heart might splinter.

If I could help all the grieving souls, I would. If I could change the entire world and make it safer, I'd have already done so. I want to do something that helps.

But I'm also someone who fears stepping out of my own front door.

So I write.

A soft voice at the edge of a darkening forest. Listening, treading carefully, trying to choose one path from too many possibilities.

If you found your way here and you're sensitive too, welcome.

I'll leave a small light on. 🌙

— Dragonfly