I spent most of my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Financial ruin, professional humiliation, catastrophic health news. You name the disaster, I’d already imagined it in vivid detail. And here’s the thing: I thought this was wisdom. I thought constant vigilance was the same as being prepared.
It wasn’t neurosis. At least, that’s what I told myself. As a documentary filmmaker, you learn to anticipate every possible failure. Equipment dies at the worst moment. Weather changes. People change their minds about being filmed. A once-in-a-lifetime shot disappears because you blinked. So you train yourself to scan for danger constantly, to prepare for collapse before it arrives.
But that survival mindset, the one that kept my professional lifestyle functional, started bleeding into everything else. My nervous system became a 24/7 emergency broadcast. Even on days off, I was bracing for impact. The alarm never turned off.
When Survival Mode Becomes Your Only Mode
After months of fighting for disability accommodations while my vision declined from macular degeneration, struggling financially, supporting adult kids, and caregiving for my 96-year-old mother, I hit a wall. Not the kind where you bounce back after a good night’s sleep. The kind where you realize you’ve been running on fumes for so long you forgot what actual fuel feels like.
One morning, sitting with my mother in heavy silence, she laughed. Not a polite chuckle. A real, bright, pure laugh that seemed to belong to someone decades younger. It filled the room completely.
And then I heard it. A quiet voice inside me, one I hadn’t heard in years: “Something good is coming.”
My first instinct? Reject it immediately. Push it away. The old protective reflexes kicked in: Don’t get your hopes up. Prepare for disaster. Stay vigilant. Don’t be naive.
But this time, something different happened. I let myself feel what that tiny voice was offering. And it felt like the first real breath after years underwater.
The Difference Between Reaction and Response
Here’s what filmmaking actually taught me, even though I’d forgotten it: The work only succeeds when you’re fully present. Not clenched. Not paralyzed by fear. Not rehearsing every possible catastrophe.
You have to hold chaos without becoming it.
There’s a massive difference between reaction and response. Reaction is your body gripping, tension masquerading as strength. Response is your mind opening, making space for what’s actually happening instead of what you’re terrified might happen.
I’d spent years reacting to life. Constantly bracing. Mistaking anxiety for preparedness. Acting like catastrophic thinking was a form of health insurance.
Since that moment with my mother, I’ve been practicing something absurdly simple. When fear starts its familiar spiral, I pause and ask myself: “Is this happening right now, or am I imagining it?”
And when the catastrophic thoughts come, I say out loud: “Thank you for trying to protect me. But I’m choosing hope now.”
Nothing Changed, Everything Changed
The external facts remain the same. My finances are still fragile. My vision is still declining. Caregiving is still exhausting. The future is still uncertain in all the ways futures are.
But I’ve stopped bracing. I’ve stopped rehearsing collapse. I’ve stopped assuming the worst possible outcome is the most likely one.
And something extraordinary is growing in that space: earned, grounded, humble hope.
I’m making decisions from possibility instead of panic now. I supported my son’s study trip to Spain even though money is tight. I keep submitting my writing despite rejections. I advocate for disability rights with clarity instead of desperation. I write from openness rather than defense.
The feeling itself might be the beginning of the good thing. Maybe expecting good is what creates the conditions for good to actually arrive.
Hope as Discipline, Not Delusion
Look, I get it if your mind constantly prepares for disaster. I lived that way for decades. It feels responsible. It feels like the only rational response to an unpredictable world where news constantly reminds us of everything that can go wrong.
But survival is not the same as living. Fear is not the same as wisdom. Preparation is not the same as panic.
Hope isn’t naive. It’s not weak or foolish or some luxury only available to people whose lives are easy. Hope is a choice. A discipline. An act of resistance against the voice that says nothing good is possible.
“Something good is coming. I am choosing to believe that.”
Because here’s what I know now: The mind can be rewired. The heart can reopen. The narrative can change. And maybe, just maybe, the bravest thing we can do is stop rehearsing disaster and start expecting something beautiful instead.
