I went to the movies yesterday with my beloved best friend. He is 85 years old—full of life, full of mobility, and fully himself. We have a tradition, he and I. No matter where we are or where we are going, we wave to each other as we drive away.
But yesterday, the wave didn’t happen.
He walked to his car, and I drove to the exit barrier. I paused there for three minutes, waiting for him to pull up behind me. I could see the rows of cars, but I couldn’t see him. The longer I sat there, the more the silence filled with noise. Was he okay? Was he confused? Did he have to pay?
I eventually drove through the barrier to avoid blocking traffic, but my mind stayed stuck in that parking lot. As I drove toward the stoplight, a small worry about a parking validation spiraled into a profound, preemptive grief. I began imagining the day when his “button is up”—when he will no longer be physically here with me.
As I pulled into my parking garage, my phone rang. It was Joseph.
He was calling to let me know he was just walking into his home—at the exact moment I was arriving at mine. He laughed about how amazing it was that we arrived at the same time, a synchronicity that happens frequently between us.
He was safe. He was home. The immediate danger was over.
And yet, when I walked into my apartment, the feeling didn’t leave.
I put my things down and made some tea, but I couldn’t bring myself to drink it. I sat at my computer and immediately closed the screen. Even though I knew he was safe, I was suddenly awash in a heavy, uncomfortable dread.
This is the moment where “Remote Control Living” usually takes over—where we scroll, numb out, or spiral. I tried to watch a few funny videos, laughed for a second, and then the heaviness came crashing back. I sighed deeply, put the phone down, and began to sob.
I didn’t try to stop it. Instead, I walked into my room, picked up a framed picture of myself, and sat down in the overstuffed chair across from my bed.
And then, I began to practice. Not by analyzing myself, but by being with myself.
I started with Awareness, but it didn’t look like a meditation. It looked like sitting in a chair, tears streaming, and simply letting myself know: It is okay to cry.
Then, I asked a Question, gently: What need are you trying to have met in this moment? I added, with a bit of humor to myself, Please help me out, because I haven’t mastered mind-reading yet.
I didn’t get an answer right away. And that was okay. I just reminded myself that when I felt safe, I would be ready to listen.
I realized my body needed to feel that safety physically. I needed a Right Action. I placed the picture on my lap and gave myself a butterfly hug, tapping my shoulders slowly. It helped, but I needed more. I reached out and grabbed the weighted blanket draped across my bed.
I wrapped it tight around my neck and shoulders, pulling down on the fabric to simulate a firm, holding hug. I pressed the picture against my chest.
In that held space, the answer to my question finally bubbled up. A small voice inside said: I am scared, and I don’t want to be left alone.
This was the moment of Self-Acceptance. I didn’t tell myself to toughen up. I didn’t tell myself I was being dramatic because Joseph had just called me and was fine.
I simply said: It is okay to be scared. You are not alone. I am your protector, and you are safe.
And then, I reminded myself of the most important truth of all, one that allowed my shoulders to finally drop. I let myself know that I am not that powerful. I don’t get to decide when my own button is up, or when anyone else’s is. That timeline belongs to something bigger than me.
I sat there for a few more moments, pressed into the chair, wrapped in the blanket’s weight. I let myself feel the truth—that one day we will grieve, and that we will be okay when we do. Slowly, the overwhelm began to recede. The storm passed, not because I suppressed it, but because I let it move through me.
I thanked myself for trusting me enough to cry.
Then, I stood up. I took the weighted blanket off, spread it back across the edge of the bed, and smoothed out the wrinkles. I went back into the living room and continued with my evening—a little clearer, a lot less anxious, and grateful for the practice.
We can’t always control the trigger. We certainly aren’t powerful enough to control the future. But we can always choose to smooth out the wrinkles afterwards.
Need a moment of calm right now?
In this story, I used the Butterfly Hug to help my body feel safe when my mind was spiraling. It is one of my go-to tools for “Remote Control Living.”
I have put together a guide with this technique and two other simple micro-practices you can use anywhere.
Ready to start laying your own bricks?
Learn the 3 micro-practices that help you interrupt autopilot and build evidence today.
