There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from living like you’re always about to crash. It’s not physical tiredness, though that’s there too. It’s the bone-deep weariness of constantly preparing for the worst moment of your life to arrive.
For decades, I operated like a walking disaster protocol. Financial ruin? Already mapped the exits. Professional humiliation? Had the backup plans ready. Health crisis? Been rehearsing that conversation for years. I didn’t think of it as anxiety. I thought of it as being prepared. Smart, even.
In documentary filmmaking, this mindset isn’t just useful. It’s essential. You learn to think three steps ahead of catastrophe because on set, things fall apart spectacularly and without warning. Equipment dies at the worst possible moment. Weather turns. Your subject has a breakdown. The location permit evaporates. That once-in-a-lifetime shot you traveled across the world for? Gone in an instant if you’re not ready.
So you become a professional pessimist. You scan for danger. You anticipate failure before it arrives. And honestly? It works. It keeps the work alive. It’s not neurosis when it saves your film. It’s craft.
But here’s what nobody tells you about survival mode. It doesn’t clock out. It doesn’t know the difference between a film set and your kitchen table. Once you train your nervous system to expect disaster, it becomes an always-on emergency broadcast system that won’t shut up.
When Protection Becomes Prison
I spent years mistaking constant tension for strength. Every financial decision carried the weight of potential collapse. Every health update from my doctor felt like a countdown. Every silence from my adult children felt like the prelude to bad news. I was never not bracing for impact.
The thing about catastrophic thinking is that it feels responsible. It feels like you’re doing something. Like your worry is a form of protection, a shield against being blindsided. But what it actually does is hollow you out from the inside. You become so busy rehearsing disaster that you forget how to just be present for your actual life.
Not long ago, I hit a wall. Fighting for disability accommodations while my vision deteriorates from macular degeneration. Money problems that kept multiplying. Adult kids who needed support. Daily caregiving for my ninety-six-year-old mother. The weight of it all pressed down until I felt like there was nothing left of me.
And then something completely unexpected happened.
The Laugh That Changed Everything
My mother and I were sitting together one morning, both exhausted, the room heavy with the kind of silence that feels almost solid. Then she laughed. Not a polite chuckle or a social courtesy. A real, pure, bright laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone decades younger. It filled the entire room like sudden sunlight.
In that moment, I heard a voice I didn’t recognize. Quiet. Gentle. Unfamiliar. It said: “Something good is coming.”
My immediate response was to shut it down. Don’t get your hopes up. Prepare for disaster. Protect yourself. The old reflexes kicked in hard and fast, doing what they’d been trained to do for decades.
But this time, I didn’t listen to them. This time, I let that quiet voice stay. And it felt like taking the first real breath after years underwater.
The Difference Between Reaction and Response
Documentary work taught me something I’d forgotten in my personal lifestyle. On set, when crisis hits, you need rapid reaction. You don’t have time to fall apart. You adapt. You move. You solve the problem in front of you.
But there’s a crucial difference between reaction and response. Reaction is your body gripping, your mind closing, your whole system going rigid with fear. Response is staying open. It’s holding chaos without becoming it.
I’d spent years reacting to life. Constantly gripping. Always rigid. I thought that tension was keeping me safe, but really it was just keeping me trapped.
The best filmmaking happens when you’re fully present, not clenched in fear of what might go wrong. You have to be awake to the moment unfolding in front of you. You can’t catch magic when you’re too busy bracing for disaster.
So I started an experiment. When fear tries to take over now, I pause. I ask myself a simple question: “Is this happening right now, or am I just imagining it?”
Most of the time, the disaster I’m preparing for exists only in my head. It’s not real. It’s just a story I’m telling myself on repeat.
Choosing Hope Like It’s a Job
When the catastrophic thoughts start their familiar spiral, I’ve learned to interrupt them. “Thank you for trying to protect me,” I say, like I’m talking to an overprotective friend. “But I’m choosing hope now.”
It sounds simple, maybe even naive. But something extraordinary has started happening. I’m learning to expect good things instead of disaster.
Nothing external has changed yet. My finances are still fragile. My vision is still declining. Caregiving is still demanding every day. The future is still completely uncertain.
But I’ve stopped bracing. I’ve stopped rehearsing my own collapse. I’ve stopped assuming the worst is always around the corner.
And in the space where fear used to live, something new has started growing. A grounded, humble, earned hope that feels nothing like toxic positivity or denial. It’s real. It’s solid. It’s mine.
I’m making different decisions 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 choose trust over dread. I write from openness rather than defense.
The Feeling Itself Is the Beginning
Maybe the best part is this: I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a new chapter. And maybe that feeling itself is the good thing that’s coming. Maybe hope isn’t about waiting for external proof that everything will be okay. Maybe hope is the thing that makes okay possible in the first place.
If your mind constantly prepares for disaster, I get it. I lived that way for so long I forgot there was another option. But survival isn’t the same as living. Fear isn’t the same as wisdom. Preparation isn’t the same as panic.
Hope isn’t naive or weak or foolish. Hope is a choice you make every single day. Hope is a discipline, a practice, an act of personal resistance against the voice that says it’s safer to expect nothing.
The mind can be rewired. The heart can reopen. The narrative can change. I believe this now with everything in me: something good is coming, and the simple act of believing it might be what brings it into existence.
