Don’t Let Fear Take the Wheel and Steer

At the beginning of 2020, I wrote a post about no longer fighting reality and instead accepting the way things are. I’ve been thinking how ironic it is that I posted this just before COVID hit. Like my post, When the Rubber Hits the Road, once again, I’ve had to practice what I preach.

COVID is a hard reality to accept. It has made a number of things difficult, one of which for me is dating. With positive cases on the rise again, I suspect places will shut down as they did in the spring and I dread facing the winter alone. I’ve made some strong efforts to find someone, but as hard as I try, it hasn’t happened. My mind then goes into fear mode that maybe I will never find someone. The uncertainty of it all makes me push harder, putting myself on more dating apps and reaching out to more and more guys on them. I feel myself fighting to find someone.

And then as I was on my way to work the other day, I heard these lyrics from the song Drive by Incubus:

“Sometimes, I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear
And I can’t help but ask myself how much I’ll let the fear
Take the wheel and steer”

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The Tug Back into that Old Familiar Pain

Song lyrics often speak to me like a voice from above. During difficult times, their words both soothe and encourage me. They often have a way of expressing what I am feeling much more poetically that I ever could.

Over the past few months, a few things have happened that have been particularly difficult for me, which brought to mind the lyrics from the song “Every Breaking Wave” by U2. I’ve made an attempt here to weave them into my own writing. I’m not sure if what I’ve written will only make sense to me. If you have any helpful comments, please leave them below. I welcome your thoughts.

“Every breaking wave
On the shore
Tells the next one
There’ll be one more” 

Grief is an odd thing. I feel good and strong one day and the next it hits me like a wave. Grief’s strong current pulls me back in. I don’t think it ever really goes away.
It just recedes for a while. 
Lurking.
Waiting. 
Then, when I least expect it, it comes crashing in.

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