This morning, I woke up with a low hum of anxiety—nothing extreme, just noticeable. After living with anxiety on and off for more than five years, I’ve learned to recognize the signs. I imagine it had something to do with Cole going back to work, having the kids home, and trying to hold work and family at the same time. No one was placing pressure on me; it was all coming from within.

Last year, when anxiety would surface for what felt like no clear reason, I began practicing something simple but grounding: naming what I was experiencing in my body. I would write it down, acknowledge it, and allow it to move through me like a wave. I’ve learned that I don’t have to fight it—I can notice it, breathe, and let it pass.

So, here is today’s poem:

Safe Here

I feel stress move through my body,
cortisol humming in my veins.
My heart beats louder than necessary,
as if it’s bracing for something
that hasn’t arrived.

There is tightness in my chest.
My stomach twists itself into knots,
muscles preparing for a fight
no one has declared.

So I pause.
I take a deep breath in,
slow and deliberate.

I speak to my body like a friend:
You are safe here.
There is no danger in this moment.
No battle to win.

Anxiety, you don’t get to lead today.
You don’t get to tell this story.
You can step aside now—
Your surge has passed.