Anxiety has a funny way of convincing us that the future is already happening. Not next week. Not next year. Right now. It pulls tomorrow into today and asks us to carry it all at once—the conversations that haven’t happened, the mistakes that haven’t been made, the outcomes that haven’t arrived. And then we wonder why our chest feels tight, why our mind won’t slow down, why rest feels out of reach.
Most of the time, anxiety isn’t about what’s happening. It’s about what might happen. It’s the brain sprinting ahead, trying to protect us by predicting every possible scenario. Useful in small doses. Exhausting when it becomes a way of living.
The strange thing is this: the future has no weight on its own. We give it weight by dragging it into the present. We replay imagined failures as if they’re memories. We rehearse worst-case scenarios as if preparation alone can prevent pain. Somewhere along the way, “being responsible” turns into “being perpetually on edge.”
The present moment, on the other hand, is almost always quieter than we expect. Look around. Right now, your feet are likely on solid ground. Your breath is still showing up for you, without being asked. Your body is doing an incredible amount of work just to keep you here. This moment may not be perfect, but it’s usually survivable. Often, it’s even okay.
Coming back to now isn’t about pretending the future doesn’t matter. It does. Planning has its place. Dreams need direction. Responsibilities don’t disappear just because we take a breath. But there’s a difference between visiting the future and moving in.
When anxiety spikes, it’s often a signal that we’ve overstayed our welcome somewhere that doesn’t yet exist.
Power doesn’t live in ten different versions of tomorrow. It lives here. In what you can do next. In the choice to pause before reacting. In the ability to ground yourself in what’s real instead of what’s imagined. You don’t need to solve your entire life today. You just need to stay present for it.
There’s something deeply human about needing reminders like this. To unclench the jaw. To drop the shoulders. To notice the inhale, then the exhale. These small acts aren’t insignificant. They’re anchors. They pull us back from spirals and return us to solid ground.
The world often rewards urgency. Faster answers. Quicker decisions. Constant anticipation. But your nervous system doesn’t thrive there. It thrives in safety, rhythm, and now. When you meet the present moment fully, you’re not falling behind. You’re actually catching up—to yourself.
So if today feels heavy, ask yourself a gentle question: am I reacting to what’s happening, or to what I’m afraid might happen? If it’s the latter, that’s your cue to come home. Back to your breath. Back to your body. Back to the only place where you can actually do something.
The future will arrive when it’s ready. It always does. Until then, this moment is enough. This breath is enough. And you, right here, are more capable than your anxious thoughts would have you believe.
Kenrick Vaz 