Today’s journal prompt was:
“What gives you the greatest amount of fear, anxiety, or dis-ease?”
At first, I figured I’d write something like:
I’m afraid I’m too much.
I’m afraid of overwhelming people.
But the more I sat with it, I realized:
That’s not quite it.
The deeper fear isn’t that I’m too much.
It’s that I’m not sure what I want.
And more unsettling still—sometimes I’m not sure I’m allowed to want anything at all.
The Pain of Not Knowing
A friend once told me to make a list of my must-haves and my can’t-stands in a relationship.
It should have been simple. But it wasn’t.
Even answering a prompt like that made me ache.
Sure, I could say I’d never tolerate being hit.
Or that I’ve already paid dearly—emotionally and financially—to leave a relationship that was emotionally destructive.
But beyond those extremes, things got fuzzy.
It’s not that I don’t have preferences. It’s that they seem to change.
I evolve. Life shifts. What felt urgent yesterday feels irrelevant today.
And sometimes, that scares me.
When the Real Fear Shows Its Face
The more I sat with the prompt, the more I tunneled into what was beneath the surface.
And what I found was...dark.
The fear isn’t just that I don’t know what I want.
The fear is that the “I” asking about wants might be doing the world a disservice by taking up space at all.
The fear is that I’m a burden just by breathing.
Now listen—I’m not suicidal.
I’m a person who generally feels joy. Often.
Who feels content. Grateful, even.
But somewhere deep inside lives a belief that simply existing is a bit of a nuisance to the world at large and that the world might appreciate having one less human being to carry on its back.
Two Useless Creatures I’d Die For
But here’s what’s strange about that:
I live with two dogs—Remi and Rooster.
They don’t do dishes.
They don’t contribute to rent.
They don’t build anything or produce anything or post anything.
They take up space.
The only thing they make is maybe poop in the backyard…and an occasional pile of cotton-ball entrails from what was once a blanket, toy or pillow.
And I would run into a burning building for them.
No hesitation.
Not because they’re useful.
Not because they’ve earned love.
But just because they are.
I delight in them. I delight in their being-ness. I love that Remi will let me fold myself around her and hug her, and she rests her face on my shoulder, curling into the hug. I love that Rooster waits outside the bathroom door when I shower just to make sure I pull through okay (though he always looks a bit confused about the fact that I walked into that thing willingly). I love that Remi will cheerily lick a layer of skin off my face before she tires of kissing me. And I love that Rooster prefers nose taps to kisses. He’s not French.
And I never question if they deserve their spot in the world.
So why can’t I extend that same compassion to myself?
What If You’re Not a Problem to Solve?
What if your presence is enough?
What if your existence alone brings beauty and warmth into the world?
There are people—maybe you’ve heard this, too—who’ve told me,
“I love you. I just want you to be here.”
And yet… I don’t fully believe them.
Maybe you know that disbelief too.
That whisper that says: You’re only valuable when you’re doing. Fixing. Earning.
But I’m trying to challenge that whisper.
To ask it where it came from.
To wonder who taught me I had to be useful to be loved.
A Gentle Invitation
So, here’s my ask of you.
Think about someone—or some being—you love just for existing.
A friend, a grandparent, a child, a pet.
Would you ever ask them to prove their worth?
Now…
Can you include yourself in that circle?
Even if it’s only for a moment.
Could it be possible that you, too, are worthy…
Just by being?
Think of it this way: …what proof do you have that you deserve to be here? Well…you are here. Why would the universe be upset by something it took so much time to create? Really and truly, the odds of you being here are soooo infinitesimally small. If the universe didn’t want you here, it would NOT have had to try very hard to reject your entry. The absurd quantity of randomized events that needed to have happened in just exactly the right way for you to be here suggests that you weren’t a mistake. Truth be told, you’re probably statistically closer to a miracle than a mistake.
I’m still wrestling with most of this.
But today, I’m letting it sit with me.
And maybe… you can let it sit with you too.
With love and curiosity,
Leah
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