The Quiet Cost of Worry

Worry has a way of threading itself quietly through our lives. At first, it feels useful—like we are staying alert, staying responsible. But left unchecked, it can settle in and begin to take more than it gives.

I learned that lesson early.

I married at eighteen, and not long after, became a father to a baby boy who seemed to think nighttime was meant for crying. Fifteen months later, our daughter arrived, and just like that, my young family was complete. We had once talked about having three children, but reality stepped in. Bills piled up faster than my paycheck could keep up, and worry became a steady companion.

Money was only one source. Relationships brought their own concerns. Health—mine and those I loved—added another layer. It did not take long to realize that worry has many doorways into a life.

My doctor would often remind me that stress takes a real, physical toll. He was right. I could feel it. So, over time, I decided: I would face my problems, but I would not let them take control of me.

That decision was tested.

For nearly four years, both my work life and personal life were under strain at the same time. Each day, crossing the James River Bridge—whether heading to work or coming home—felt like driving straight into trouble. There was no relief in either direction. By the time those years had passed, the cost was visible. My hair had thinned and turned gray. Lines had settled into my face as if they belonged there.

But those years taught me something lasting: worry must have limits.

For the past thirty years, I have tried to live by that truth. Some problems demand attention, but not endless attention. The hardest stretch came when my son was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and passed away within fifty-four days. No amount of preparation can shield a parent from that kind of loss. Even then, I learned that grief must be carried—but worry, if allowed, can consume what remains.

I have also learned by watching my wife. She does not ignore problems, but she refuses to let them dominate her life. When stress appears, she finds ways to step back, to breathe, to carry it without being carried away by it. That quiet strength has taught me more than any advice.

With age has come a certain clarity: worry and stress are thieves. They steal time, peace, and presence. I have done my best to keep them at a distance, though they still try to return. They always will.

But I have learned to meet them at the door—and not always let them in.

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength.” — Corrie ten Boom