There’s a strange thing our minds do when life feels uncertain: they sprint ahead. Not a gentle jog, not a curious wander—an all-out dash into a hundred possible futures. Most of them unrealistic. Many of them unkind. And before we even know it, our bodies are reacting to moments that haven’t actually happened. That’s the trap of anxiety: we start living in days that don’t exist yet.
It can show up in small ways—like checking your phone for the tenth time for something that hasn’t come. Or in bigger ways—like rehearsing disasters that aren’t actually unfolding. It feels like preparation, but it’s really self-protection wearing the wrong costume. We forget that our power isn’t stored in the places we’re afraid of. It’s here, where we can do something. Where we can breathe. Where our actual life is happening.
Coming back to the present isn’t some poetic instruction; it’s a practical shift. It’s pausing long enough to notice that your feet are actually grounded somewhere right now. It’s realizing your breath might be shallow because you were caught in a storm of “what ifs.” It’s remembering that your body only lives in the current moment, even if your mind tries to time-travel for sport.
There’s a gentleness required to pull yourself back. Not a scolding, not a dramatic reset—just a quiet “come back.” Come back to the chair you’re sitting on. Come back to the sound of your kid playing in the next room. Come back to the conversation you’re actually having instead of the one you’re worrying about. Come back to the version of you that isn’t bracing for impact, but simply existing.
The present has a grounding quality because it’s the only place where anything is real. The future is a sketch. The past is a collection of moments we keep rearranging. But the now—this breath, this heartbeat, this moment—is the only place where clarity ever shows up. And more importantly, it’s the only place where you have any true influence.
When you remember that, anxiety loses some of its grip. Not all of it—because you’re human, and humans worry—but enough that you can stand a little taller. Enough that you can step back into yourself. Enough that you can take one small, doable action instead of wrestling with a whole imaginary month.
Maybe “stay in the present” feels like tired advice. But at its core, it’s an invitation to return to the one place where you’re not powerless. You don’t have to solve Thursday on a Monday. You don’t have to carry every possible outcome today. You don’t have to outrun the future. You just have to be where your feet are.
Your calm lives here.
Your clarity lives here.
Your strength lives here.
And so does your next right step.
Kenrick Vaz 