When things don’t turn out like I think they will or should, my first thought is always: what did I do wrong?  How did I let this happen?

It’s taken me 28 years to realize maybe I didn’t do anything wrong.  In fact, I know the curve ball tossed at my face isn’t my fault.  Like Tara Brach said, I did nothing wrong.  It’s just real life.

I get worried that if I’m not viligent enough, then everything I’ve worked for will go to pot.  But too much villigence sucks the joy out of life and makes everything about life harder than it really is.

And I don’t want to dissapoint myself.  So if I do everything right, everything will turn out perfectly, no?  And if not, then I’ll blame myself.

But, really, a large percentage of my day is beyond my control.

I can prepare to teach my group fitness class, get there, realize the mic is dead, do my best to teach mic-less, maybe make a mistake here and there.  Even if I let Kate pick out everything about her day – her clothes, her food, her shoes – she will still throw a tantrum.  If I follow a new recipe to the letter but it might still be a bust.

There’s only so much I can do.  And it seems fruitless to run around trying to prevent any worst case scenarios because life’s not an emergency.  Nothing is so urgent.  For better or for worse, it’s all just real life.

Remember how I was totally dreading this month?

I was nervous about my RPM training, wondering how Kate would do at preschool, and gearing up for a solid week parenting solo.

But I did all those things.  And I think the apprehension was worse than the actual things.

I always worry I won’t make it.  That I can’t possibly get through the next set of challenges.  I’ll push against the concerns and worries like if I brace myself I can prevent nervousness or accepting the full reality of the challenge.

But I know that won’t work.  So in the face of a challenge, I hunker down, do my best, and take whatever comes piece by piece.

And I always make it to the other side.  I always do.  But when I come out the other end, it’s like amnesia takes over.  Then when faced with another set of challenges, it’s the same old I can’t make it feelings.

But this month I realized I always make it.  I always do it.  Come up with someway to see it through.  It’s easier to stear into the skid than fight.

If we’re not taking on challenges, then what’s the point, right?  If we’re not feeling a little scared, then what?  Maybe the best part has been there all along, those can I do this? feelings that ends, either way, with going through with it.

I’ve been dreading September.

Usually I am a September fan.  I’m done with the heat and humidity.  It’s my birthday month.  There seems to be more of a life routine once September and the fall rolls around.

So what’s the deal?

Changes are a brewing this month.  Kate starts preschool, I’m taking on another group fitness challenge, teaching more classes and working at multiple gyms, Dan’s travel schedule is busy busy, we’re making plans for our future selves, and trying to fit in just Dan and Sarah time admist all the comings and goings.

These are all good things.  Things I’ve worked for and made happen.  And I’d much prefer to juggle multiple projects than just a few.

But I still feel anxious about making it all happen.

But I don’t want to feel anxious it because anxiety feels gross.  And triggers my esophagitus.  So instead I’m accepting this month as a daring challenge.  Nothing about this month is an emergency or “bad.”  It’s just new and busy.  And while new and busy can make me feel panicky, it can also be an opportunity for growth and maybe even fun.

I can’t express enough how much I appreciate the kind words on my post about worry and my faith-testing day.  It seems everyone can relate to how vulnerable we feel when life moves out of our control.

So what can we control?

We can control what we choose to do with ourselves each day.  And we can choose how we react to things we don’t choose for ourselves.

When I was laying out the month of August, I wanted to groan.  Sure, I have fun stuff planned like attending BlogHer12 and participating in a huge group fitness event.  But Dan is going to be out of town some again.  We’re driving to the beach, a drive that makes me want to curse and vomit and never drive anywhere again.  And I’m preparing for a busy September with Kate going off to preschool and new challenges for me.

So I totally wanted to groan when I thought about the month of August.

But then I realized, I have power over this month.  It doesn’t have power over me.

I can choose to be anxious and frustrated and mad.  Or I can choose to be lighthearted.  Choose to let go of the resistance.

And when I think of letting go of all that, it’s an easy choice.

August could feel stressful.  Or it could be fun.  My choice.

I’ve been thinking a lot about worry this month.  How I like to use worry as a way of preventing bad things from happening.  And how worry, really, gets me nowhere.

Worry as a form of faith never serves me.  Instead, worry wraps it’s tentacles around my throat.  And squeezes hard.

While I’m busy letting worry seep under my skin and suck the life out of me, my life goes on living.  Without me.

Something happened this month that challenged that worrywort part of me.  I share this story for two reasons:  1) worry is not preventative and 2) never, ever, skip a doctor’s visit.

Here’s what happened:

I had my annual OBGYN check up this month.  Standard stuff.  Just a that yearly, routine examination.

My OBGYN is the same OBGYN who delivered Kate.  I’m crazy about her.  I missed her after I had Kate, and I didn’t have a reason to come back to see her each month.

So we chatted away while she performed my breast exam.  She felt me up on my left side.  And started over to my right.  Then she stopped.  Refelt.  I saw something flash across her face.  And she refelt again.

Then she said, “Sarah, have you ever checked your breasts?”

And I said, “ummm…”

She said she felt what she thought was just a benign cyst, but she wanted me to go get a sonogram to be certain.  She said she wasn’t concerned but wanted to be sure there wasn’t something else going on.

I wanted to panic.  I wanted to launch into a full scale panic, complete with my worse case scenario thoughts and perhaps a good vomit.

But I had Kate with me.  And Dan was out of town.  I was alone.

So.

There wasn’t time to panic.

I clutched my referral for a breast sonogram and encouraged Kate to move quickly across the parking lot and into the car.  Once I had her strapped in, I started dialing.  I called up the closest diagnostic center and requested an appointment.  For right now.

Fortunately, I got an appointment for later that afternoon, called my sister and told her I had an errand to run and needed her to watch Kate later.

And then I went to the grocery.

I’m one of those busy-worriers.  I don’t eat my feelings.  I don’t tend to cry.  I don’t pick and tear at my nails.  I busy my body while my mind whirls with what ifs.

As I calmly selected produce, I figured this was as good of a time as any to work on my self talk instead of letting a sea of anxious thoughts envelope me.  I had things to accomplish today.  I needed to put one foot in front of the other.  If I let myself go down a scary train of thought, I didn’t know how I’d get through the day.

After Kate and I got back from the grocery, my sister came over to relieve me.  I told her it was just a regular check up, I’d be back soon.  Gave Kate a kiss and got in the car.

When they called my name for the appointment, they took me back to a room filled with half-dressed ladies old enough to be my mom, and a handful old enough to be my grandmother.

As I stripped off my clothes and pulled the too-big gown around my middle, I kept thinking, I’m only 27, I’m only 27, I’m only 27.  This shouldn’t be happening.

After what seemed like the longest 10 minutes of my life, the tech called me back.  As she manueverd the wand over my breast, I felt all those tears I’d been holding back prick through my eyes.  The tech asked if she was hurting me.  But all I could choke out was I have a two year old.

The tech nodded and explained that she’d been over and over my breast and the lump just looked like a clump of breast tissue, nothing of concern.  She called the radiologist into the room to confirm, and after going over and over and over my right breast, she told me she didn’t see any evidence of cancer.  That my breast was just…dense.  And that clump was dense breast tissue all lumped together.

I told her, funny, my breast don’t feel very dense to me.  The adjective I’d pick would be flabby.

And then I asked her if she was sure, very sure, that what she saw wasn’t a cause for alarm.  I told her I have a two-year-old at home.  I’m 27.  I want to be sure.

She confirmed those deep dark fears were not going to come true.  There wasn’t anything in my breast.  I could go on home, continue my yearly exams, stop worrying.

What I really want to do is obsess over this.  Whenever I have a rare moment of quiet in my day, I find myself reaching up to my chest to that lump.  I want it to go away.  Even though I was told not to worry, there’s nothing there, it doesn’t take away from the fact that I was scared.  That I get scared.  That something bad could happen to me.

But each time I feel that lump, I challenge myself.  Do I want to sit here, feeling that lump, and letting that lump get in my way?  Should I waste my time with thinking that worrying will prevent any and all bad things from happening?

Or maybe I can challenge that thinking.  Maybe I can change the narrative in my head.

The fact is: there is a lump in my breast.  And the fact about that lump is: doctors ruled it a clump of breast tissue with no malignant signs.  Another fact is my doctor is going to recheck it in four months.  So the fact is I am fine.  And consuming myself with anxiety doesn’t change the facts.

So.  Worry.

I wish I had the magic words to get rid of worry.  I don’t.  So each day, each moment, I try to do my best to quell those nervous flutters in my stomach.  I tell myself, right now I am in spin class, right now I am eating dinner with my family, right now I am enjoying this book, right now I am in the company of friends.  Because right now is all I can control.

The Olympic Games are coming up.  And if there was an event for worrying, I would take the gold.

Bring up any situation – anything at all – and I will show you my ability to calculate the Worst Case Scenario.

It’s a gift.

A terrible gift.

And once I’ve determined The Worst Thing That Could Happen, I’ll stew about it.  That maybe if I just worried enough, The Worst Thing wouldn’t happen.

Well.  I’m here to tell you to save your energy because this thinking never works.  And it only leads to stomach aches and missing out on joy.

So my plan is to recognize when I’m going down that Worst Case Scenario path and determine if the worry is something solvable or unsolvable.  Monitor how often I let nervous, anxious thoughts enter my brain space.  And challenge whether my worry is effective.  Or just driving me crazy.

Hakuna matata.  No worries.  Letting it go.

June was all about joy.  Joy in parenting.  Choosing joy.

I’m kind of timid about joy.  Wouldn’t want to enjoy myself too much.  Lest…lest…lest, I don’t know, I expode from happiness?  Love my life too much?  That I could have too much fun?

Is there such a thing?

I’m thinking not.

So here I am, taking a vacation, in Sedona, Arizona.  Right now.  And enjoying myself.

This is me.  Embracing joy.

When I was in middle school, the Vice Principal was this kind of strange guy.  A balding, stout fellow with a love of birds and a hatred for middle schoolers with chewing gum, he’d march down the hallways and toss menacing looks at students while ordering them to get to class.

But behind his upteen years of experience in teaching and administration of 7th and 8th grade students that gave him this tough exterior, was a kind, gentle man.  I landed myself in Mr. Lynch’s office on a couple occassions for various good-student stuff, like honors society awards and the like.  And it always struck me how good natured he was about working with students during one of the most awful times in adolescents.

Every morning Mr. Lynch led the morning announcements.  He’d remind kids to not leave Sun Chip bags lying around, not to loiter in the halls, information about an upcoming assembly on the dangers of drugs and alcohol, and other items of note.  But he always ended every morning announcement session the same way, with a phrase I’m not sure he made up but I definitely credit to him.

He’d say: make it a great day or not, the choice is yours.

Now, my fellow classmates loved to mock his saying, tossing it around at each other in a coy fashion.  As an old soul and not one to make fun of the administration, I took his words to heart.  But as an 8th grader, I never fully appreciated the message behind those words.

I thought Mr. Lynch was just telling me to make my day great.  And in a way, he was.  But that’s as far as I took it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about joy lately, and the role that choice has in joy.  Under the shower head the other morning (one of the places where I do my best thinking), I realized that I can choose joy.  I can choose to live a happy, full life, regardless of what’s happening around me, especially those things that are out of my control.

Dear, old Mr. Lynch was suggesting I should make my day great.  But not just that.  He was also saying it was my choice to make it a great day.  Not my friend’s choice or my math teacher’s choice or my parent’s choice.  My choice.  I could choose to have a great day.  Or not.

I love this idea of choice because if there’s something I don’t like, it’s feeling forced.  I wouldn’t want to be forced to be joyous – or forced to be unhappy.  And, sometimes, as the minutes drag on day after day, and I find myself sick of toddler games and The Fresh Beat Band by midday Tuesday in this stay-at-home-mom role, I feel like a prisoner in my own life.  That nothing about my life is of my choosing.

But that’s not true.  Everything is about the choices I made.

So I’ve been thinking about things differently.  That each day I choose to be home with Kate.  And each day I can choose joy.  Each day I get to choose my life.

Joy should be easy, right?

But what if you feel guilty about living in joy?

Or if you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Maybe you don’t feel deserving of joy.

I feel all those things – guilt, worry, undeserving of a joyous life.  Why?  I don’t really know.  Maybe it’s because I’m a Virgo.  Or perhaps because I’m a firstborn.  A Type A perfectionist who refuses to celebrate anything less than over 100% success.

But I’ve noticed a curious pattern.  The more I work to create perfection, the less joy I feel.  Perfection robs me of joy, leaving me feeling unworthy of a happy life.

In the end, I’d rather be joyful than flawless.  Live in delight, not worry and anxiety.  Happy instead of continuously working towards the phantom that is a perfection.