Lesslee Dort

History has a way of handing down timeless wisdom. Corrie Ten Boom was a Dutch watchmaker who risked everything to protect others during World War II. She endured the horrors of a concentration camp, and yet, after the war, Corrie spoke around the world about faith, forgiveness, and resilience. Her life story, “The Hiding Place,” has left an indelible mark on me.

Her reflection, “Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength,” has lingered with me because it speaks to a struggle that feels just as real in ordinary life as it did in her extraordinary one. If anyone knew the cost of worry, it was her, and her words still challenge those

of us living in less perilous times.

How were her days not consumed with worry? I worry. I worry daily. I worry about my choices. I worry about my friends’ lives. I worry about my family. I worry about my dog’s droopy eye. I even worry whether the dinner I’m making will be enjoyable.

But, by now, we must all know that worry, if we let it, can fill a room and choke out peace. Worry doesn’t get us one inch closer to contentment. In fact, it blocks the door.

If you’re a fellow worrier, you get it. Some of you likely understand it better than I do. We all know, deep down, that no amount of worrying changes reality. And it doesn’t change the outcomes of situations out of our control. Yet still, we wring our hands, furrow our brows, and fill the air with anxious possibilities.

If I were on a debate team debating “The Value of Worry,” I could probably hold my own for the pro side. Worry, after all, can appear to be an act of preparation. It urges us to consider pitfalls, anticipate worst-case scenarios, and sometimes discover solutions before they are needed. In small doses, it can spark problem-solving.

My opponent would surely win the debate. Worry is corrosive. It eats away at our health, our joy, our relationships. Loved ones feel the weight of our worry, too — the scowl on our faces, the tension in our voices, the heaviness that dampens connection. The truth is, worry doesn’t just take up space in our minds. It seeps into everything. Worry destroys.

Perhaps that’s why there are so many cultural responses to worry: yard signs directing our thoughts, social media posts urging mindfulness, friends offering quick encouragements. It’s such a common human battle that the world keeps posting reminders, hoping one might stick.

Most of these sayings are short and easy to share, but their rich roots often reach deeper. They echo the wisdom of those who endured real trials. Over time, thoughtful commentary has been condensed into readily accessible sound bites. It’s not that the phrases are wrong — they are in danger of losing meaning when stripped of their original depth. These hard-won truths risk being rendered meaningless through truncation and overuse.

For me, faith has always been part of the picture. I was exposed to two very different models of faith. My dad was steady, pragmatic, and quiet. He knew his Bible, attended church every Sunday, and lived with a faith that hummed quietly beneath his scientific, rational exterior.

My mom, on the other hand, was less likely to quote scripture but unshakable in her belief. She showed up in the kitchen, feeding people, helping however she could. Her faith was simple and certain: she believed Jesus was there, and He would help.

And yet, even with her steadfast belief, my mom worried. Deeply. She worried about her children, our choices, our futures. From the time I was small, I saw her wring her hands and give voice to her fears. Ironically, as the one being worried over, I often found it unnecessary. I thought, “This is my life. My choices. My mistakes to make or to mend.” Still, I absorbed her habit. Worry, it seems, can be inherited like eye color or laugh lines.

I’ve tried to unlearn it. Sometimes I momentarily succeed, often by writing my way through it. That’s how my daily writing began: emptying my head of every anxious thought, tracing each one to its imagined conclusion, and leaving them on the page. What started as a survival tactic grew into essays, columns, and eventually a book. Writing became not just a release for me, but a bridge to others who know this same gnawing pull.

I know I’m not alone. Worry is universal. Some of us lean on faith. Some on therapy, meditation, or exercise. Some on humor. For many, all of the above. What matters is not that we never worry — it’s that we don’t let it become the narrator of our story.

Lesslee Dort is a writer who hopes her essays and guided journals inspire readers to pause, reflect, and

the third Thursday of each month.