Worry, and I go way back. We are not exactly friends, but we have spent enough time together that I could probably pick it out of a crowd. It has followed me through childhood, adulthood, motherhood, work, bills, busted appliances, and those mysterious house noises that only happen after everyone else has gone to bed.

Even as a kid, I worried. I worried about getting in trouble, about the what-ifs and just-in-cases that mostly revolved around playing too long, coming home too late, or suddenly remembering I had forgotten one very important thing at home: chores. Nothing will put a cramp in a good afternoon faster than remembering you were supposed to sweep something before you ran out the door.

Then I got older, and my worries got older right along with me. They upgraded. Suddenly worry had rent payments, a mortgage, a calendar full of appointments, a grocery list, a job, and children who could turn a perfectly normal week into a game of Jumanji.  Adult worries do not usually announce themselves politely. It just walks in carrying a stack of bills, a leaking faucet, a school form due yesterday, and a reminder that dinner still needs to happen.

But this stage of life feels different. Not carefree exactly. I am not floating around in fog pretending nothing matters. Things still matter. People still matter. Bills still matter. Health matters. Family matters, and I matter. The roof over my head and the dogs and people under it still matter greatly. But the worrying itself? That has lost some of its shine and sparkle.

Maybe it is because there are fewer years in front of me than there are behind me. That sounds dramatic, I know, but it is also true. At some point you become aware of your own mortality, not in a gloomy, candle-in-the-window kind of way, but in a practical, “Well, we better not waste the good things” kind of way. Once that happens, worry changes shape.

I do not worry as much about being liked by everyone. That is exhausting work, and frankly, the pay is terrible. I do not worry as much about having the perfect house, the perfect plan, the perfect answer, or the perfect anything. Perfect is a fussy little word that has caused more stress than it has ever solved. Instead, I have a new list. It is the “I can live with this” list.

I worry less about what people think of my choices, my timing, my opinions, my clothes, my laugh, my gray hair, my choices, my no-thank-you, or my yes-I-meant-that. Somewhere along the way, I stopped auditioning for approval. I still care about being kind. I still care about being honest. But I no longer feel the need to shrink myself into whatever shape makes someone else more comfortable.

These days, when trouble shows up, I am less likely to wring my hands and more likely to ask, “Alright, how are we going to handle this?” That question has become one of my favorite tools. It does not deny the problem. It does not pretend everything is easy. It simply refuses to allow worry to hold onto the steering wheel.

I suppose that is the gift of getting older. You learn that worry is not preparation. It is not protection. It is not proof that you care. Sometimes it is just noise in your ear that echoes through your heart and dulls the soul. Believe me, I have spent enough years listening to that noise. Now, I would rather spend my time loving myself, giving myself a bit of grace and mercy, laughing when I can, handling what needs handling, and letting the rest stand there looking confused because I did not invite it in… I worry less about life in general. I wonder what I can do next, what is up ahead, and how I’ll get through it. But truly I don’t worry so much. I know… I know God got me and I got this. One day at a time, it is what it is. And at times I hear in my mind, and my heart, Michael singing Don’t worry be happy…  and I know I am good. I am covered…