“Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”
—Matthew 6:27

I wasted years worrying myself sick about things that might go wrong. I worried so much that I’d find myself anxious about whether I worried too much, tumbling into an endless downhill spiral of worrying about worrying about worrying. Then the truth broke through, sharp and simple: Worrying doesn’t fix anything. It just adds an extra burden you don’t need when life’s already heavy.

I used to freeze, the future looming like a blank slate I had to mark up, every line a potential mistake. Money might vanish. People might drift away. Everything might collapse with one loud thud. I’d tangle those threads into knots, bloating small hiccups into phantoms that haunted my sleepless nights.

The real troubles arrived anyway, no better or worse for all my fretting. Worrying didn’t help. It made the waiting denser, a second load piled on the first.

Then I saw it plainly. God slid into focus, not with fanfare or flare, but with a calm strength I’d missed. I’d grown up with the stories, the promises, but they’d stayed faint, like murmurs I hadn’t grasped. Then it settled in. The world isn’t mine to shore up. It never was. Something greater, something unshaken, holds it firm. That cut worry down to nothing. Worrying isn’t insight. It’s baggage, an added problem I’d chosen to carry.

Trusting God smooths the edges. Storms might brew, roofs might leak, calls might go unanswered, and nights might stretch dark and dreary. Life stays tangled. But I learned to stop worrying. It didn’t add an hour to my life. It robbed me of years I could have spent helping a stranger, counseling a friend, or sharing God’s love with others. I used to think I had to plot every turn and chase off every shadow. With God there, that’s handled. The pieces settle where they belong, held by hands that don’t tremble. I don’t lug tomorrow’s weight because it’s already lifted.

Letting go took time. A walk outside, the wind brushing my sleeves. A song loud enough to drown out the noise inside my head. A moment to feel the ground beneath me, solid without my tinkering. Worrying adds nothing, stretches nothing, mends nothing.

The change came like shedding a skin I’d outgrown. Life doesn’t need my rehearsals. It unfolds vividly and loudly with or without my hold. God’s there, in the gaps and the quiet, cradling what I can’t. Bills might stack up and plans might unravel, but I don’t wrestle them down before they arrive. They come and I face them, lighter without the dread that used to plague me.

I stopped worrying not as a half-finished fight, but as a settled matter. It took time, a steady unwinding from the weight I’d mistaken for a shield. Sometimes the old tug would nudge me, tempting me to pick it up again. I don’t do that anymore. Instead, I turn to the light slipping through the branches, the sound of my breath, the steady hum of a world I don’t protect. With God, worrying is revealed as a problem I don’t have, one that vanishes the moment I ignore it.

Life’s far too short and fleeting to waste on imaginary problems that may never materialize. I live life now and trust God to guide me along its rocky, uncertain path. Worrying doesn’t take a seat anymore. It’s an unwanted guest I’ve shut out. The space it leaves shines with what matters—seeing God’s love in everything.