Sarah Jayne Johnson

When I was around 10, I got the stomach flu and it changed me. For whatever reason, this singular night of porcelain companionship triggered a lifetime of hypochondria and illness-related anxiety that made me feel hopeless, lonely, and stressed. I started changing the way I did things to reflect a little voice in my head telling me if I didn’t do things a certain way, I’d get sick. A voice that would circle and spiral until I was crying nearly every night when I went to bed. I wanted so badly to have control over the thing that I feared most, and I started to lose my mind when I couldn’t have it.

One night, while wiping big red tears from my eyes, my dad came and sat at the foot of my bed. He had brought me his coveted “magic pillow” that made any big, terrible thing melt away from the moment your ear touched the pillowcase.

“Okay, so what’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know I just, I don’t want to get sick,” I said, between shallow, uneven gulps of air.

“Well,” my dad said, “that’s not always up to you. Sometimes we have to realize that a lot of things in life are out of our control, and that’s okay. You can only do all you can do.” He then wrapped the covers around me, fluffed my pillow, and my fear subsided a bit.

The world is a giant, beautiful, and scary sphere spinning around whether we like it or not. Now more than ever, it’s important to lean on each other (figuratively, of course) to hold this big blue ball in place. Comfort yourself by comforting others. Grieve openly and in unison with those you love. Be vulnerable from afar, and recognize that hopelessness only wins if you let it. Talk to the people you love because, chances are, they’re going to love you right back. And when all of this is over, and we start to settle back into normalcy, that love will still linger.

So grab your magic pillow, and maybe call your dad if you can, because you can only do all you can do.

Sarah Jayne Johnson is a writer and community advocate living in Eau Claire, Wisconsin.