Anxiety in Motion: A Drive, a Reunion, and Everything in Between

I’m on the road right now—driving three hours to Detroit—and my anxiety is running high. My chest feels tight, my thoughts won’t settle, and I’m doing my best just to breathe through it.

I’m heading to see my cousin, who’s in from California, and my brother—who I haven’t seen since my mom passed away. My cousin just lost his dad, my mom’s brother, only a few months ago. So this trip is full of heavy emotions, layers of grief, and memories we all carry in different ways.

Seeing my brother again… it’s not easy. After Mom passed, he said some horrible things to me. Things I’ll never forget—threats and accusations—all because I didn’t sell her house and split the money. But the truth is, there was no money. She had already given him her newer car before she ever got sick. Her home was all she had left, along with her photos and little knickknacks—which I offered him. But it was never about the stuff.

That house—our family home—meant everything to her. She wanted her grandkids to have it, the home they grew up in, to stay rooted in something she worked her whole life for. Skylar was already in the process of buying it when she got sick. She made it clear to me—more than once—that she wanted him to have it. I honored that. I did what she asked. And because of that, I lost my brother.

So yeah—this is hard for me. Much harder than I let on.

My dogs are home, and even though Skylar is there taking care of them and I know they’re safe, I still feel uneasy being away. They’re my comfort, my therapy, my peace.

But I’ll see my daughter today, and that gives me comfort. And my youngest son will be meeting up with us too, which helps me feel a little more grounded. Having both of them there means I’m not alone in this.

I also saw my cousin last year—for the first time since we were kids—and that felt like reconnecting with a part of myself I didn’t even know I missed. My mom always wanted to go back to California. She longed to be near her brother and sister again. That was home to her, and maybe being near her family today will help me feel closer to her in some way too.

But there’s more weighing on me. My oldest son is flying to Puerto Rico today with his wife, and I just want them to be safe. I want them to enjoy their time and come home without worry. I know they’re grown, I know they’re capable—but I worry. I always worry.

Truth is, I worry about my kids more than most probably think is normal. I don’t really know why… maybe because I’ve already lost so much. My life has been filled with loss over the past 16 years. Loss after loss. And when you’ve lost that much, your love becomes more protective. Your fear becomes louder. It’s like your heart never really stops bracing for the next hit.

Anxiety doesn’t need a reason. It just shows up. Loud and heavy. It rides in the passenger seat. It clings to the unknown and magnifies everything you’re already carrying.

Still—I drive. I show up. Even when my chest is tight and my hands are shaky. Because I believe in facing the hard things, even when they hurt. Because I believe healing happens when you keep showing up for the people you love, for the people who stayed, for yourself.

I don’t know how today will go. I don’t know what will be said, or if anything will be made right. But I’m here. And I’m trying.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re carrying too much—like your heart is stretched across miles and memories—please know: you are not alone.

This is me, today.

On the road.

Anxious.

Grieving.

Loving.

Trying.

One mile at a time.

One breath at a time.

Still moving.

Still here.

Peace, Love and Loud Music,

Mickey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OZuXAFsMSw