No Worries

A Masterclass in Catastrophizing

I walked into the waiting room at my therapist’s office and texted her to let her know I’d arrived, as I always do. This particular day she’d actually asked me to arrive fifteen minutes earlier than usual, and I happily agreed. So there I was, having arrived early, feeling smug about how incredibly on time I was......when time started melting away.

First it was 1:15, the time we were meant to start. Then 1:20. I realized my therapist hadn’t responded when I told her I’d arrived. It seemed strange, especially on a day she’d specifically asked for an earlier appointment.

But I tried not to think much of it. Not yet. But when 1:20 became 1:30, my mind started doing what I like to call disaster gymnastics.

It’s where my brain pulls on emergency-red spandex and gets ready to compete.

What if she got into a car accident? Hamstring stretch.

What if there’s an unstable person in her office holding her hostage? Forward bend.

What if she passed out and no one knows she’s in there unable to move? Touch your toes.

Meanwhile, my brain was absolutely crushing the floor routine.

If I were a person whose worst-case scenarios had stayed hypothetical, I probably would’ve walked out around 1:40 after thirty minutes of silence. But trauma didn’t let me do that. It kept me pinned to my seat.

“What if something’s wrong and you leave?” my worry brain asked.

You’ll never forgive yourself. It practically sang.

I wish I could’ve shrugged it off with a simple, “No worries, I’m sure it’s all good”.

“No worries” You’ve heard it a million times. I know I have.

It’s practically the anthem, the theme song, the native language of the Australian people. My late husband, being so very Australian, said this phrase so often it eventually drilled itself into my own vocabulary.

Which is hilarious. Because if you were born Jewish, as I was, “no worries” is one of the most contradictory things you could possibly say.

Me: “No worries.”

Also me: immediately proceeds to think of every single worry one might have about the exact scenario she’s “no worrying” away.

Jeremy and I balanced each other out. One of us was raised to worry about everything; the other was raised to shrug it off. There was always perspective. And sometimes infuriation.

Here’s the thing about a trauma brain: once you’ve lived through the worst-case scenario, it stops feeling hypothetical. It amplifies worry a million times over. “No worries.” “It’ll be okay.” “It’s all good.” Those are phrases I can’t choke out without tasting the lie on my tongue.

At least, I couldn’t.

By 1:50, I decided to take matters into my own hands and rang the bell of another therapist in the office. When she came out, I explained the situation. She nodded and said she’d go check and be right back. Five whole minutes passed.

Do I even have to say it? Back to gymnastics.

Why is this taking so long? Side stretch.

Did she find her unconscious? Lunges.

Is there something crazy going on in there? Deep breath.

Then the woman popped her head through the waiting room door, smiled at me as though everything were perfectly ordinary, and said, “She’ll be right with you.”

Now I was confused. And... if I’m honest... a little angry.

That’s it? She’s in there. Perfectly fine? As though I hadn’t just spent the last forty-five minutes spiraling in the waiting room? I mean, I’m used to spiraling in therapy. Just not because of my therapist.

A few minutes later, my therapist came out with another woman who had obviously just finished her session. She waved goodbye, ushered me inside, and immediately started apologizing.

She explained she’d simply lost track of time. Her office clock isn’t digital, she’d misread it, and because her previous client had arrived late, everything had shifted. She doesn’t check her phone during sessions, which I know to be true.

She was flustered.

I was a wreck. I crumbled. Embarrassed, relieved, sad, angry, every emotion arrived at once, and the tears came with them. She simply sat there and gave me space.

But I couldn’t understand why I was reacting this way. Then it hit me. I wasn’t angry at her. I was angry at me. Angry that I couldn’t just be “normal.” Angry that my brain had taken me hostage instead of letting me do the perfectly reasonable thing and walk away after fifteen minutes.

Angry that forty-five minutes in a waiting room had somehow become emotional survival. We talked about it all, of course. She is, after all, human. She was dealing with her own guilt I am sure, maybe some anger. But I am grateful to say I have a therapist who is willing to be human with me, went on that roller coaster with me, and checked in on me later that evening.

After our session I went home. I slept. And I woke up feeling lighter. I forgave myself because I had to. Because the truth is, my reaction made sense. Trauma changes the way your brain measures danger. It doesn’t measure whether something is likely. It measures whether it’s possible.

And if it’s possible...Well, I’ve already lived through possible.

The next day the sun was shining. I made plans for a little getaway to visit a friend. I ticked off some life admin I’d been putting off for months. I went grocery shopping because another friend was coming over for dinner. A few hours before she was due to arrive, my phone buzzed.

She had to cancel.

I stood in my kitchen with a handful of spices I’d just pulled out for the chicken I was making and dictated my reply.

“Hey Siri...”

“Respond to text.”

“No worries.”

I looked at the words on my screen for a second, laughed, and hit send.