What Do You Do With a Worry?

The act of letting go.

What do you do with a worry?
I’m asking because I found one the other day.

Not having the gift of balance,
I was staring at my feet while walking out of the shops
in a particularly busy part of town—
and there it was.

A Guatemalan worry doll.
No bigger than an inch.
Pressed paper, colorful wool.
Trampled. Out of place.

Instinctively, I bent down and picked it up.
Held it tenderly in my hand—
just as I once did another, long ago, that belonged to me.

I remembered a childhood moment:
my parents tucking me into bed,
recounting the Mayan legend of the worry doll—
muñecas quitapenas.

Princess Ixmucane,
gifted by the sun god with the power
to dispel the troubles that cause worry and fear.

Children whisper their worries to the doll
and place it beneath their pillow.
By morning, the burden is gone—
lifted quietly in the night,
as if by an invisible hand.

A small act of letting go.

As a child who suffered night terrors,
my small box of dolls became a kind of sanctuary—
a place to stash my fears.

But more than that,
they were small, steady companions:
always listening,
never afraid of the dark.

I folded my hand protectively around the threadbare doll
and carried it to my car.

It felt weightless.
Insignificant.

But was it?

Was I holding someone’s secret?
A wish meant to stay close?
A sorrow whispered in confidence,
then misplaced before it had time to be healed?

I couldn’t help but think about the person—
child or grown-up—
who might’ve carried this with them,
who might be looking for it still.

Was this, however small, a piece of someone else’s story?

I’ll admit—
I felt responsible for the care of it.
The carrying of it.

I sat with the worry for a few days,
unsure what to do next.

It moved from one surface to another—
kitchen counter, nightstand, windowsill.

So small, and yet it took up space.
I was always aware of its presence.

In fact,
I started to worry about the worry.

Should I have left it on the sidewalk?
Is it better for a worry to be squashed?
Stepped on?
Forgotten?

I don’t know.
When you press a worry down or cling too closely,
it doesn’t quiet—it coils.

Beneath the weight, it waits.
And when it rises again,
it doesn’t ask—it insists.

Eventually, I took it for a walk,
hoping inspiration might strike—
as it often does—
on long, slightly aimless city hikes.

I gave it a little pep talk.
I asked questions out loud.

We walked for nearly an hour.

Still, nothing.
No insight. No clarity.

Just me. And a worry.

Which, I reminded myself—
wasn’t mine.

At the edge of a quiet park, I spotted a tree.
A very climbable tree.

It called to something I hadn’t felt in a while:
a childlike part of me.

Not just bold—
but unburdened.

As a kid, I loved to climb—
trees, hay bales, jungle gyms, barn ladders.

The higher I went,
the more I could see.

Up there, my little world stretched at the seams.
And the things I carried shifted—
less dense, less defining.

I could see past myself.
The world felt wider—
more beautiful, more complicated.

And I could hold both.

Worries, from that height, don’t always vanish—
but they soften.

So I climbed.
Three branches up.

I wedged the worry into a notch in the bark,
facing the open field.

And with a little prayer to Princess Ixmucane,
I whispered, Godspeed.

Maybe it’ll catch the wind.
Maybe a bird will pluck it for its nest.
Maybe it’ll just rest in the sunshine—
a quiet salute to the sun god.

Whatever happens,
I hope that with a new vantage point,
it begins to feel a little less like itself.

I dropped from the last branch
and landed softly on the grass.

I didn’t look back.
I just turned for home—
steps light,
shoulders relaxed,
hands finally free.

photo by @conradjlawson