I Stopped Believing in Stress

I used to think control would save me.

That if I planned well enough, scheduled tightly enough, anticipated every possible outcome—then maybe, just maybe, I’d outrun chaos. That if I held on tightly enough to my calendar, I could outrun fear. But life doesn’t ask permission before it changes. It doesn’t check your Google Calendar before it wrecks your sense of safety. And sometimes, it takes a single text to remind you: we are not in control.

I still remember the first day I was introduced to the word stress. I was in middle school. Algebra was canceled that day—score!—and our guidance counselor came in to give a “wellness lesson.” She wheeled in a whiteboard with a diagram on it—a big colorful wheel that mapped how our thoughts turn into feelings, and how those feelings spiral into stress, then anxiety. She explained how our bodies react, how to notice certain signs. I listened carefully, wide-eyed.

Before that day, I don’t think I really knew what those words meant. I had never labeled my emotions that way. Especially not as the child of immigrants. But from that day on, it felt like the language of stress and anxiety became a permanent fixture in our vocabulary. A go-to explanation for anything even remotely uncomfortable. A filler word when something felt off. And over time, these words started to lose their meaning.

We say we’re “so stressed” or “feeling anxious” constantly—often without really knowing why. The truth is, most of us are not always stressed. We’re overwhelmed. Or overstimulated. Or afraid. But we’ve taught ourselves to name everything stress, instead of stopping the emotional spiral before it overtakes us. We’ve trained ourselves to react, instead of to reflect.

And still—none of that mental training prepares you for the moment when the world drops out from under you.

A few mornings ago, I was rushing through my routine—half-dressed, half-caffeinated, half-late. Eyeliner in one hand, green tea in the other. I was throwing things into my bag, juggling breakfast, matching shoes, and trying to make it to my 8:30 a.m. meeting with some semblance of composure. The world felt predictable. Manageable.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was an automated SOS text from my Dad’s iPhone.

“Crash Detected SOS.”

I didn’t even know iPhones did that.

And I really, really wish I never had to find out.

He’d been in a car accident.

A bad one.

Car totaled. Ambulance called. Police on scene. That kind of accident.

I froze.

Suddenly, my carefully constructed morning collapsed into panic. Lipstick forgotten. Deadlines irrelevant. Just static in my chest and one phrase repeating in my head: Please G-d, let him be okay.

Thank G-d, he is.

At least physically.

Everyone involved survived, walked away. But walking away from something doesn’t mean you’re not carrying the weight of it. I still feel the way the world tilted under me that morning, like the floor was made of glass.

I’m not telling you this for sympathy. Not for dramatics.

But because I need to say it out loud: Any moment can be the moment everything changes. And we forget that. Until we’re reminded—violently, abruptly—that life is not promised.

We’ve all had plans unravel. We’ve all stood in the wreckage of the future we thought we had. Maybe it was a diagnosis. A breakup. A job lost. A phone call in the middle of the night. We’ve all been there. That moment when your grip on control slips and all that’s left is the ache of uncertainty.

That’s why I’ve stopped believing in stress.

Not because I don’t feel it—but because I’ve realized most of it isn’t real. Most of the time, what we call “stress” is just the absence of spiritual grounding. The noise that rushes in when we forget we are not the ones in charge.

Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: stress and faith cannot live in the same heart. One crowds the other out. Stress is loud. It shouts, “Fix it now.” Faith is quiet. It whispers, “You are held.” Stress demands answers. Faith makes peace with mystery. Stress says, “It’s all up to you.” Faith says, “It never was.”

Faith gives you clarity when your mind is a storm. It gives you stillness when the ground beneath you trembles. It gives you presence when all you want is to fast-forward through the fear. So I’ve stopped clinging to my calendar like it’s a life raft. I’ve stopped measuring the strength of my day by how much I accomplish. I still plan, yes. But I no longer worship the illusion that planning will protect me.

Instead, I pray for the courage to keep going when the plan falls apart. For the strength to breathe when I don’t have answers. And for the wisdom to know that G-d doesn’t promise predictability—He promises presence.

Control may feel safe. But it’s an illusion. And illusions don’t hold you when your world falls apart. Faith, on the other hand—real, steady, lived-in faith—has a quiet strength. It doesn’t promise ease, but it promises you’re not alone. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

I used to think letting go meant giving up. Now I see it as making space. Here’s what I mean: Clench your fist tightly. Hold it. At first, it feels strong—even powerful. But after a few seconds, the color drains. The blood can’t move. You’ve cut off your own circulation. That’s what control does. It makes us feel safe while quietly starving us of life. But open your hand, even just a little, and the blood returns. Warmth, color, movement. That’s what surrender feels like—not defeat, but return. A return to presence. To perspective. To purpose.

So maybe it’s not about having less fear. Maybe it’s about trusting more—despite it. Not because life is predictable, but because it isn’t. And in that unpredictable space—where our plans fall apart and our grip loosens—faith begins to breathe. And we begin to live.

So no, I don’t believe in stress anymore. I believe in surrender. I believe in G-d. And I believe in the peace that comes not from knowing what tomorrow holds, but from knowing Who holds tomorrow.