Worst Case Scenario

What the Girl in the Parking Lot Taught Me About Fear

When I was a young girl, I carried a body full of fears. One of the most persistent showed up in the most ordinary moments, running errands with my mother. I am the youngest of three daughters, born many years after my sisters. On weekends throughout my childhood, I often tagged along as my mother made her way through town. She never settled for a single stop; first the cheese shop, then the butcher, the bagel store, the fruit stand, and whatever else she needed to take care of. Sometimes, when the errands were done, we would stop at Häagen-Dazs, where I always chose a small cup of coffee ice cream.

I knew without question that I was loved. My mother doted on me, and I soaked in her affection. Still, on the rare occasion she left me in the car while she ran inside a store, panic gathered in my chest. I would sit there, holding my breath, convinced she might never come back. Maybe I had watched too much Punky Brewster, the show about a little girl abandoned by her parents who found refuge in an empty apartment. Or maybe it was something else. Whatever the reason, no amount of love seemed strong enough to quiet the fear that one day my mother might disappear.

Decades later, that same part of me still waits in the parking lot, always on alert for loss. When my boys were young and my husband and I were juggling full-time jobs, we were in constant communication about family logistics. Back then he carried a pager, and though his work as a hospital-based physician was demanding, I could usually reach him right away. Which is why, on the rare occasions I couldn’t, my mind spun into catastrophe. What if he had been in a car accident? What if he had collapsed in the bathroom? What if I had to raise the boys alone? Where would we live? How would I provide for them? The scenarios multiplied until inevitably, minutes later, the phone would ring. He would always have a simple reason for the delay, and the sound of his voice would drain the panic from my body.

I wish I could say that now, as a forty-seven-year-old psychologist and mother of three, the young girl inside me has finally left the parking lot. But tonight reminded me she has not. My family and I just celebrated the Jewish New Year at my mother-in-law’s house. It was a perfectly fine evening after a perfectly fine day. Yet when I came home, I felt the old heaviness press against my chest. This time, it was not about my family. It was about Nancy. She was my therapist decades ago, and after reconnecting this spring, we began exchanging daily emails when I started sending her my substack essays. Her notes have become a steady connection woven into my mornings and nights. Tonight, though, just before bed, my inbox was empty. She is a night owl, I told myself. Her words often land long after I am asleep. Still, my body did not believe it. A knot tightened in my stomach, whispering that something was wrong. That knot is what pushed me to sit down and write, to try to understand why, all these decades later, I still twist in fear at the thought of losing someone I love.

I may never fully understand why this fear has lived inside me for so long. But I do know something now that I could not see when I was younger. My worry never told the truth. My mother always returned to the car. My husband lies safe beside me every night. And Nancy’s email did arrive by morning. All those imagined losses never happened.

That is not to say real loss has not come. It has. And it has torn through my life in ways I could never have predicted. The most devastating came when a plane crash stole my sister-in-law, brother-in-law, and three young nephews from this world, a loss so sudden and unbearable it split our life in two. Other blows have followed, like the medical uncertainty that left my middle son battling a post-viral illness. Interestingly though, none of the losses or hardships I have faced were preceded by sleepless nights of dread. Instead, they each arrived uninvited, and all of my anxious rehearsals did nothing to soften their blows.

Still, I survived them. Not without pain, sometimes excruciating pain. But with the support of those I love, I found ways to keep moving forward, to continue loving the ones still beside me. I have learned that the only true preparation for loss is not vigilance but relationship. Strong, reciprocal connections do not prevent grief, but they make it more bearable.

And yet my fear remains stubborn. A missed call, a delayed reply, an empty inbox, all can still stir the child in me who once sat in a parked car, scanning for signs her mother had vanished. That little girl may always believe vigilance equals safety. But I know better now. Loss will come when it comes, and it will probably never be the one I rehearse. Worry may feel like vigilance, but it does not protect me. It only steals joy before it is necessary.

And so, as I mark the beginning of a new year, I am reminding myself of the truth. Fear does not keep loss or pain away. Loss will come, and when it does, I will face it as I always have: imperfectly, but with more resilience than I expect. The work in front of me is to stay here, in the present, to grieve what is real and to remain with the love that surrounds me, even when it feels unbearably fragile.