From Fearless to Fragile: How Age Taught Me to Worry

When I was a kid, I was fearless.

I slid down sizzling hot metal slides in the middle of summer, drank water straight from the garden hose, and rode a mini bike with no brakes like I was invincible. I climbed trees just to see how high I could get, played football with the guys, and stayed out until the streetlights buzzed on. That’s when the real fun started: kick the can, hide-and-seek in the dark, ghost in the graveyard—we didn’t run from the dark, we played in it. I tried catching bats with a white sheet and snuck out of the house without a single sliver of fear. The world was one big adventure waiting to be explored.

In my 20s and 30s, I carried that wild spirit with me. I had my first son just two months after turning 19. My daughter came at 22. Another son at 26. And my youngest at almost 31. Four beautiful children. Four C-sections. And still, no anxiety. No fear. I did what needed to be done with love, strength, and determination. I was a young mom, but I didn’t hesitate—I just kept going.

Music was my escape, my therapy, my passion. I spent countless nights at Harpos Concert Theatre in Detroit, in a rough part of the city where most people wouldn’t walk alone. But I wasn’t most people. I wasn’t scared. I was there for the music, the energy, the people. It felt like home.

But something changed in my 40s.

When I lost my dad to cancer at 40, I felt the first crack. It was the first time I truly realized that life wasn’t guaranteed. That realization grew louder as the years went on. By the time I hit my 50s, anxiety hit me like a storm I didn’t see coming. I started worrying about things I never used to—sirens made my heart race. I’d think of my kids, even though they’re adults now. My mind spiraled into what-ifs, my chest tightened, and suddenly fear lived in me where freedom used to.

And then came the grief.

Between 2022 and 2025, I lost so much. My mom. Close friends. My ex-husband. My beloved pug, PugBug, who was with me through thick and thin. It shattered me. Not long after my cat, Bynx, and then my mom’s cat Sam. So many pieces of my heart gone within such a short span of time.

And just when I thought I couldn’t carry more grief, my beagle Buster—one of my best friends—needed surgery for a tumor on his butt. I panicked. I couldn’t breathe thinking I might lose him too. Both my beagles, Buster and Vic, are turning 13 this year. They’ve been with me through so much, always there, always loving, always loyal. Just today, Buster got stung or bitten in the mouth by a bug, and the anxiety hit me like a wave. I was terrified. All I could think was, I’m not ready. I’m not ready to lose one of my best friends.

My beagles are my heart. My family. My comfort. And the truth is—I worry constantly now. I fear the worst outcome every time something feels off. I’m trying so hard to shift my mindset, to get in a better headspace, but it’s hard when you’ve loved and lost as much as I have. It’s hard when you carry grief in one hand and the weight of anxiety in the other.

And with the way the world is right now, that fear is amplified. The chaos, the division, the violence—it takes me back to the 1980s, when I was a kid lying in bed wondering if we were going to get nuked. That same quiet dread is creeping back in—but this time, I carry it with the memories, the losses, and the ache of all I’ve already endured.

I miss the girl who chased bats and snuck out and played in the dark. I miss the young mom who faced surgery and sleepless nights with unshakable strength. I miss the woman who stood outside Harpos waiting for the music to lift her soul.

But she’s still here.

She’s just softer now. Wiser. A little more fragile, but a whole lot braver.

Because getting older doesn’t mean I’ve become weak. It means I’ve seen things. Felt things. Survived things. It means I’ve learned to hold joy and sorrow in the same hand. To keep loving even though I know the cost. To keep showing up, even when I’m scared.

I may not be fearless anymore—but I am stronger, softer, and more human than I’ve ever been.

And that? That’s courage.

Welcome to my life!

Peace, Love and Lots of Music,

Mickey