Ice is coming.

Schedules are being canceled, grocery stores are running out of water, and for me, the familiar hum of anxiety has been growing louder in the background. Living in North Texas, ice doesn’t just mean inconvenience—it carries memories of power outages, cold houses, and being trapped inside while small children bounce off walls. My body remembers those moments, even when my mind insists we’re prepared.

As the days have gone on, the anxiety has kept building. I’ve spent my time doing what I know how to do: planning.

Running errands.
Doing laundry.
Preparing food.
Making lists.
Staying busy.

It feels productive, responsible—even calming for a moment. But preparation has its limits. It’s not the work that drains me; it’s the unknowing. The waiting. The possibility of losing power, heat, or options. For someone who hates feeling trapped or helpless, that uncertainty isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s paralyzing.

Today, the anxiety peaked. In the middle of it, I felt deeply frustrated because I knew I had tools to help me calm down—but it was like my brain had gone dark, and I couldn’t access any of them. I knew what I needed, and yet I couldn’t reach it.

Eventually, I sat down and wrote out exactly how I was feeling. And almost immediately, it was as if the fog began to lift. Nothing about my circumstances changed, but the anxiety loosened its grip. I could see more clearly. I could think again.

These are the words I wrote:

Searching in the Dark

It feels like I’m reaching for tools to calm down,
but it’s dark,
and I can’t find what I’m looking for.

My mind is spinning so fast
I can’t slow down long enough
to figure out what I need to do.

Frantic.
Rushed.

Pulled in too many directions,
convinced I have to do everything at once.

Even when something gets checked off my list,
it’s immediately replaced
by two more things.

If I stop moving, it will catch up with me.
I’ll let people down—
dropping all the balls
no one asked me to juggle.

I’m ashamed that I can’t handle this on my own.

Breathing deeply only stretches the moment.
It slows what’s chasing me,
but it doesn’t make it stop.

Naming what I’m feeling turns on the light.
It lets me catch my breath
better than breathing ever could.

I write it down.
I describe the picture in my mind.
And somehow, it begins to fade.

The deep thrum in my chest softens.
My lungs open.
I take a real breath.