the thing about worry

a salve for the heart

Worry has always been a companion of mine. She rests deep in my belly, waiting patiently, listening attentively. When inspired to awaken, she rises swiftly, without hesitation, and suffuses my mind with unhindered tenacity. Consistency is her superpower. She does a splendid job—always has. And, I’m learning to be in conversation with her, to move her towards the light.

---

Nearly two decades ago, a few months after completing my first yoga teacher training program, I made an appointment to see a much sought-after Ayurvedic physician in New York City, my home at the time. It had taken me months to get an appointment and many more weeks of waiting once it was scheduled. Beyond my introductory understanding of Ayurveda, which I’d received in my yoga training, I had no idea what to expect from this visit. I wasn’t even quite sure why I was going to see her other than the fact that she had come highly recommended by a trusted mentor and a few close friends who urged, “Just go see her—trust me.” The cost of the session was well beyond what I could afford at the time, but I went anyway.

I left work early that day, assuring my boss I was going to a doctor’s appointment—just a checkup. Serene music filled the dimly lit waiting room and as I sat waiting, my eyes traced the clean rows of white oak shelves lined with elegant amber bottles filled with lotions and elixirs. From behind a milky-white curtain, a woman’s face appeared—her gentle eyes seemingly filled with light. She smiled a smile that sent a wave of ease through my system, placed a clipboard holding a neat stack of papers and pen on the table next to me, then turned and disappeared behind the curtain again. I filled out the extensive questionnaire in earnest—the queries on the page sparking my curiosity even more.

After several minutes, the woman appeared again and this time she spoke—her voice mimicing the kindness in her eyes—”Kate, she is ready for you.” I followed her into a small, tidy room with a modest, north-facing window overlooking downtown manhattan and a proper desk. The room felt more like an office than a treatment room, but the warmth I felt from the woman holding space on the other side of the desk, awaiting my arrival, began to dissolve the undertainty I was feeling. The moment I sat down across from her, my system softened.

“Please stick out your tongue,” she instructed. From the opposite side of her desk, the doctor studied the interior landscape of my mouth. She seemed unphased by her observations, a good sign, I hoped. After taking my pulse, examining my nails, and observing my eyes, she laid her pen gently onto the desk and looked up. A broad smile spread across her face and seeped into her deep brown eyes. She tilted her head slightly and with a loving, thoughtful tone similar to that of my own grandmother, she asked softly, “Tell me, why do you worry so much?”

I opened my mouth, prepared to speak, but no words came. I felt exposed. Then I felt deeply seen. We sat in silence for a moment until eventually the words arrived. “How did you know?” I queried. She dismissed the question with a sage nod and then spoke a wisdom that swept through my cells and called my heart to attention.

“Let’s not forget that our worry is a consistent prayer for that which we fear.” Her voice poured through my ears and settled deeply into my bones. Tears welled in my eyes and a smile unfolded across my face—a silent assurance that her words had landed. She met my smile with her own and went on, “You know, it may not be easy, but it’s all going to be okay. Your work is to trust that truth.”

After the exchange, she scribbled a recipe by hand on a sheet of paper and gave me instructions for a dietary protocol I was to follow for the next few weeks. A touch more guidance and a few potent words of wisdom later, and I was being graciously ushered out the door.

The late afternoon sun warmed my shoulders as I walked home along the busy streets that day. Reflecting on how swiftly my worry had softened simply by acknowledging its presence alongside another open heart, I realized we have a choice—we can choose to pray toward the fear, or we can choose to pray toward the light.

I never saw her again, but the image of her tender gaze and lived, embodied wisdom returns to me often - her handwritten recipe now etched in my mind, her words an enduring salve for my heart.