How to Stop Worrying and Start Living

Nov 3

Worry is a strange companion. It slips into conversations uninvited, shows up on long drives, waits for me in the quiet moments, and whispers worst-case scenarios in the middle of ordinary days. For the longest time, I thought worry meant I care, that if I wasn’t worrying, I wasn’t doing enough, trying enough… protecting enough. It took me years to realize that worry isn’t a strategy. It’s just a story my mind keeps repeating when it’s scared of surrender.

Between Worlds

I come from a mix of worlds, Nigerian (Yoruba) by heritage, born and raised in London, England until I was fourteen, and now rooted in Vancouver. Each place taught me a different rhythm of being. London gave me a taste of British stoicism, that quiet “keep calm and carry on” resilience that can look like grace on the outside but often hides a storm underneath. Vancouver gave me permission to finally exhale – where movement, nature, and quiet started to feel like home. And somewhere between those worlds, my Yoruba roots continue to ground me, a quiet reminder that identity is never accidental. Even in my name, Adérìnsọ́lá, there’s an echo of that truth: I’m meant to walk through life with dignity, not fear.

The Loop of Worry

Worry crept up on me slowly, masked as responsibility. I’d catch myself lost in loops of thought about everything from my finances to my relationships, my deadlines to my safety. Some worries were valid: systemic injustices, health concerns, the kind of uncertainty that’s part of being human. But others were… ridiculous in hindsight. Like the mornings I’d drive 45 minutes to work replaying one obsessive thought: Did I leave the tap running? I’d imagine the call from my building's strata manager, the flood, the insurance claim, the chaos – all before 9 a.m.

By the time I found a parking spot, I’d be exhausted, chest tight, shoulders up to my ears. What could’ve been a joyful commute, music on, tea in hand, maybe the latest afrobeat track playing loud enough to make the drive feel like freedom – became a mental hostage situation. That’s the thing about worry: it robs the present moment and replaces it with hypotheticals. It makes you live every bad possibility twice, once in your imagination, and again if it ever happens in real life.

Cost of Control

Here’s the truth I learned the hard way: worry doesn’t prevent pain; it multiplies it.

It seeps into our relationships, because we start responding to problems that don’t even exist yet. It clouds our work, because worry is usually just fear trying to stay in control. It even manifests in our bodies – the headaches, the insomnia, the shallow breathing that makes it feel like the world is closing in.

At its core, worry gives off the illusion of control. It gives us something to do with our discomfort, a way to feel busy while we’re actually stuck. Peace isn’t just the absence of control; it’s knowing what’s yours to hold and what’s not.

The Shift

I wish I could say there was one big epiphany, an aha moment where I decided to stop worrying and start living. But it was more subtle than that. It began when I noticed how emotionally, physically and mentally depleted I felt after every episode of spiraling. Worry wasn’t helping me prepare, it was just rehearsing disaster.

One day I caught myself mid-thought – halfway through imagining a scenario that hadn’t even happened and asked: “Is this true?” That simple question broke the loop. Often, it wasn’t true. Sometimes it was possible, sure, but not certain. Checking the facts became one of my first tools for peace.

From there, I started practicing small shifts, grounding myself through breathwork, movement, prayer, therapy, and music. It wasn’t about silencing worry completely (that’s not realistic, and not human), but about changing my relationship to it.

What's been working for me

Here’s what I’ve learned works, not perfectly, but consistently.

Movement – remind your body it’s safe

Worry lives in the body. When I move — whether it’s a walk, a dance, a yoga flow — I interrupt the cycle of tension. My breath deepens. My muscles unclench. My mind catches up to my body’s calm. You can’t think your way out of worry; sometimes you have to move your way out.

Prayer and mindfulness – let it go

When I pray, it’s less about asking for things and more about releasing what I can’t carry. Prayer is an act of humility — a reminder that I am not the architect of every outcome. Mindfulness works the same way. It invites me back to now. The present moment is rarely as catastrophic as my mind predicts.

Vulnerable conversations – naming it out loud.

Worry thrives in silence. The moment I voice my fears to someone safe, they shrink. Whether it’s a friend, a family member or a therapist, speaking out loud about what scares you breaks its spell. Sometimes we just need someone to validate us and say, “That sounds hard, but you’re okay.”

Music, distraction, and joy – rediscovering ease and making room for joy

I started giving myself permission to switch off my thoughts with joy. Music, especially Afrobeats and rap, which for me is its own kind of therapy. It brings me back into tempo with myself. Even simple distractions like a TV show, tidying up, and a long shower can reorient your nervous system toward ease.

Rest – remembering you’re a human, not a machine.

Sleep isn’t just rest, it’s repair. I’ve learned that exhaustion magnifies worry. The more depleted I am, the less resilient my mind becomes. Protecting my rest is a form of emotional hygiene.

Science as perspective

Cognitive Behavioural Therapy taught me that worry often comes from the mind trying to predict pain – an overdeveloped survival reflex. We are innately wired to seek safety, and when life doesn’t offer that certainty, the mind tries to create it.

Learning to check the facts changed everything for me. I started asking myself simple questions: What proof do I actually have that this will happen? And if it did, could I handle it? Then I’d think back: Has something like this happened before? What did I do then?. Almost every time, the answer was the same – I handled it. That’s when it clicked for me: resilience isn’t about never worrying; it’s about trusting that you can make it through, even when you do.

Sometimes, when I catch myself spiraling, I get frustrated. I’ll think, “Why am I even worrying about this? What difference is this going to make?” It’s almost like I have to talk myself down from the ledge – reasoning with my mind, reminding myself to breathe, to check the facts, to do one of the things I know helps – duh. Some days it’s unleashing these worries on my husband, other days it’s music or a swim, or just naming what’s happening out loud. That’s usually when the intensity starts to soften.

Live well, not perfectly

To me, living well means showing up to life with curiosity, intention, and balance. It’s doing what you love (within reason, of course) while staying aware of your whole self. It’s choosing connection over control and presence over perfection. I don’t believe in “erasing” worry, that’s just, not realistic. I believe in transforming it. Now, when worry shows up I 1) give myself some grace, I don’t fight it or shame it 2) I acknowledge that I'm feeling afraid 3) I try to self-soothe.

When you start living after years of overthinking, everything feels a little new. The sunlight hits differently. You sleep better. Conversations feel richer. And you can agree that it's the little things that make you feel free.

Living isn’t about constant happiness. It’s about presence, being in the moment rather than analyzing it. It’s knowing that the sink probably isn’t running, but even if it is, you’ll deal with it when you need to. It’s remembering that peace isn’t found in perfection, but in perspective.

There’s a Yoruba proverb that says, “When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot harm you.” I think that’s what living well really means — making peace with your inner world so the outer one feels less threatening.

Reflection

So here’s how I stop worrying and start living, every day:
I breathe deeper.
I move my body.
I pray, even when I don’t have the words.
I speak to someone instead of spiraling.
I dance to songs with my kitchen lights low.
I remind myself that like my name: the crown walks into wealth.
And wealth, for me, is peace.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself — the tight chest, the 3 a.m. thought spirals, the exhaustion of caring too much — please know that you’re not failing. You’re just human. Start small. Notice the moments you could reclaim from worry. Ask yourself: Is this true? Then gently come back to living.

Because the truth is, life is happening right now, not later, and I’m choosing to be here for it.

Derin Kumi