The fire that never happened
I remember being a young adolescent when my dad took me to see a house fire just down the street.
It was enormous.
The flames seemed to consume everything around it. The house was burning, but so were the sheds, the trees, the cars nearby. The heat was overwhelming. Even as a boy, I could sense that somebody’s entire world was disappearing in front of my eyes.
Long after the fire trucks had gone and the ashes had cooled, that fire kept burning inside me.
Many nights, when the house was quiet and everyone else was asleep, I would lie awake imagining disasters. What if our house caught fire? What if there was an accident? What if someone I loved died?
As I grew older, the fears simply changed clothes.
Would I pass the test?
Would I get promoted?
Would I ever be able to retire?
Would I find someone who would love me, and whom I could love in return?
Then, before I even had children, I worried about what might become of them someday.
Looking back, it almost seems absurd. Life was already handing me enough challenges, but I felt compelled to manufacture more. Somewhere, I had learned that this was simply what adults did.
Adults worry.
Adults carry the weight of the world.
Adults expect the worst so they won’t be surprised.
I remember when my youngest daughter was in high school and preparing for a three-month student exchange trip. She and I were both excited. It was an incredible opportunity.
An aunt called me to talk about it.
“Aren’t you worried?” she asked.
“No,” I answered. “She’ll do fine. I believe in her totally.”
There was a pause.
Then she said something I have never forgotten.
“Well, someone has to be worried.”
That simple statement captured one of the great myths many of us live by.
We think worry is an act of love.
We think anxiety is a sign of responsibility.
We think carrying imaginary burdens somehow protects the people we care about.
But it doesn’t.
The writer Richard Rohr suggests that much of our internal dialogue is shaped by our own fears, judgments, and old protective habits. We decide what we will pay attention to and what we will ignore. We look at life through a lens clouded by fear and self-preservation.
He writes that we need to “clean the lens.”
That idea resonates deeply with me.
How often do we wake up at three in the morning and see the future through the eyes of fear?
How often do we assume the worst because our mind believes it is keeping us safe?
The truth is that fear rarely arrives as a dramatic, life-threatening event. More often, it hides in ordinary thoughts.
What if I fail?
What if they don’t accept me?
What if I lose my job?
What if I don’t have enough?
What if I am not enough?
Those questions become so familiar that we stop questioning them. They become the background music of our lives.
But what if they are lies?
Rohr argues that much of our fear exists to protect what he calls the false self—the version of us that is desperate to control outcomes, preserve our image, and avoid pain at all costs.
The false self believes that if it worries enough, it can prevent suffering.
The deeper self knows better.
It knows that love cannot grow in soil constantly churned by fear.
It knows that trust is not passive. Trust is active courage.
It is believing in your daughter enough to let her board the airplane.
It is believing in yourself enough to face uncertainty.
It is accepting that life has never offered guarantees and probably never will.
I have discovered that most of the fires I feared never happened.
The house never burned.
Many of the catastrophes I imagined never arrived.
The promotions came and went.
The tests were written.
The children grew up.
Life unfolded much as life always does—with moments of heartbreak, moments of joy, and countless ordinary days in between.
And I wonder how much of that journey I missed because I was rehearsing tragedies that never took the stage.
I am not suggesting we become careless.
We should plan.
We should prepare.
We should protect those we love.
But there is a profound difference between preparation and preoccupation.
Preparation deals with reality.
Worry deals with imagination.
One helps us live.
The other often prevents us from living at all.
Perhaps adulthood is not about becoming better worriers.
Perhaps maturity is learning that fear does not deserve the final word.
Perhaps wisdom is understanding that love and trust are stronger guides than anxiety.
And perhaps the bravest thing any of us can do is close our eyes at the end of the day and whisper to ourselves:
I have done what I can.
The rest does not belong to fear.
It belongs to tomorrow.
Five Thoughts to Carry With You
1. Ask yourself, “Is this happening, or am I imagining it?”
2. Prepare for what you can control, then release what you cannot.
3. Don’t mistake worry for love. The people you care about need your confidence more than your anxiety.
4. Pay attention to your internal dialogue. Your mind is telling a story—make sure it is telling the truth.
5. Remember that most of the fires you fear will never happen. Don’t let them burn down today.
