An 1892 painting by George Inness titled 'The Lonely Farm, Nantucket'

On Anxiety

A feeble attempt to describe the indescribable

I live with anxiety. It’s been a constant companion for most of my life, as far back as I can remember, at least. This is an attempt to describe my experience of it.


Sinuous body wrapping itself around my brain. Squeezing, tighter and tighter and…

A blizzard, maybe. I don’t know. We don’t have those here, but I’ve seen them on TV. Cold down in your bones. Wind like the coyotes at the edge of the neighborhood after dark. Can’t see where I’m going or where I’ve been, either. Alone and lost and tired. So painfully tired.

Light-headed. Confused. Why can’t I think? Try harder. Concentrate. Try. Maybe I should stop thinking? But I can’t. Can’t rest. Just for a moment. Just to catch my breath. Why? Try harder. Move my legs, I’ve got to, right now! Run, get away! But I can’t. So tired, so painfully tired.

Sinking, lower and lower. How much further? So tired. Descending into the bad dark, into the abyss — this black abyss.

But there You are, lower still.

About Ryan

Ryan writes for weary pilgrims learning to follow Jesus through the wilderness. He serves as a lead pastor at a church in Southern California.

The Weary Pilgrim

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