(photo by Tim Gouw)

I’m really good at worrying. And I was even better at it when I was a kid. I used to imagine the worst about everything.

If my parents left the house, I knew they weren’t coming back. Either because they would die in a horrible car vs. bus vs. airplane accident. Or they’d simply change their mind about being my parents and head down to Mexico for a few decades.

I was convinced the most awful things lived right outside my door, or under my bed, or in my body. So I worried.