It was a perfect Sunday afternoon. NFL Redzone was on. I was relaxed. Life was good.

My son David, his wife K'leigh, and my grandson Remington had been visiting The Woodlands, TX and were supposed to be heading back to Fort Worth. I figured I'd text to get their ETA.

No response.

I called. Straight to voicemail.

And that's when my brain went into full catastrophe mode.

I'm talking zero to complete disaster in approximately 3.5 seconds.

Car accident on I-45. Emergency room. Life-flight helicopter. The call every parent dreads.

My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. I was already mentally planning which hospital I'd drive to.

All of this happened in the time it takes most people to think, "Huh, I wonder if their phones died."

My trauma brain had hijacked my perfectly good Sunday and was now driving it off a cliff.

When Your Brain Writes Disaster Movies Without Your Permission

Here's what nobody tells you about trauma: Once your brain learns that terrible things can happen, it becomes an Oscar-winning screenwriter specializing in disaster films.

And it doesn't need your permission to start production.

One unanswered text? BOOM. Full catastrophic narrative, complete with hospital scenes and funeral arrangements.

The speed at which this happens is actually remarkable. If I could harness that creative energy for something productive, I'd have written seventeen novels by now.

But instead, my brain uses its superpowers to imagine every possible worst-case scenario the moment someone doesn't text me back.

Thanks, trauma brain. Super helpful.

The Moment I Realized I Was Losing My Mind Over Nothing

But here's what was different this time: I caught myself.

About 30 seconds into my mental catastrophe movie, I had a thought:

"Wait. This reaction is insane. They probably just have their phones off. Or they're driving. Or... literally anything other than what I'm imagining."

That moment of recognition—that flash of "this is an outsized reaction"—was everything.

Because once I recognized it, I could do something about it.

The Four Steps That Saved My Sunday (And My Dignity)

Here's what I did instead of spiraling into full panic mode:

Step 1: I Recognized the Reaction Was Trauma, Not Reality

I said to myself (out loud, because why not): "Okay, trauma brain is activated. This is a trauma response, not a real emergency."

Just naming it—acknowledging that this was my past hijacking my present—took some of the power away.

My brain was reacting to old pain, not current reality.

The fact that David, K'leigh, and Remington weren't answering their phones didn't mean disaster had struck. It meant... they weren't answering their phones.

That's it. That's the only actual fact I had.

Everything else was a story my trauma brain was writing without consulting reality.

Step 2: I Let Myself Feel the Feelings (Without Acting on Them)

This is crucial: I didn't try to talk myself out of the anxiety.

I felt it. The racing heart. The shaky hands. The panic rising in my chest.

But I didn't let the feelings dictate my actions.

I could feel anxious AND not send 47 panicked texts.

I could feel scared AND not leave angry voicemails about "how worried I was and why don't they ever answer their phones."

Feelings are information, not instructions.

My anxiety was telling me my trauma brain was activated. It wasn't telling me David was in danger.

Step 3: I Challenged the Catastrophic Thinking

I started asking myself questions:

"What's the most likely explanation for them not answering?" (Probably driving. Or phones are off. Or they're busy.)

"What evidence do I have that something is wrong?" (Zero. Literally zero evidence.)

"Has this catastrophic thinking ever been accurate in the past?" (Almost never. My trauma brain has a terrible track record of predicting actual disasters.)

"What am I actually afraid of?" (Loss. Abandonment. The helplessness of not being able to protect people I love.)

That last question was the key. Once I recognized that my panic was about my own fear of loss—not about their actual safety—everything shifted.

My anxiety was about ME, not them.

Step 4: I Grounded Myself in the Present

You know what was actually happening in that moment?

I was sitting on my couch. NFL Redzone was on. My house was comfortable. I was safe.

Nothing was actually wrong right now.

So I made a choice: I was going to stay in the present instead of living in the disaster movie my brain was writing.

I turned my attention back to the TV. Watched some football. Breathed.

And I let it go.

I didn't text again. I didn't call repeatedly. I didn't spiral into anger about "how inconsiderate they are for not responding."

I just... let it be.

The Anticlimactic (And Hilarious) Ending

Hours later, my phone rang.

It was David. They were on the road, heading back to Fort Worth.

"Hey Dad! Sorry we didn't respond earlier. We were taking a nap before the drive and had our phones off."

They were napping.

NAPPING.

While I was mentally planning their funeral arrangements, they were literally just sleeping.

And in that moment, I was SO GRATEFUL I hadn't acted on my panic.

Can you imagine?

Me (in 47 panicked texts): "WHERE ARE YOU?! WHY AREN'T YOU ANSWERING?! I'M SO WORRIED! CALL ME IMMEDIATELY!"

Them (after waking up from a nap): "Uh... we were just sleeping, Dad. You okay?"

How embarrassing would that have been?

But more importantly, how damaging would that have been to our relationship?

If I'd melted down over them not answering texts for a few hours, I would have:

• Made my anxiety their problem
• Created unnecessary drama over literally nothing
• Trained them to feel guilty for normal things like... taking naps
• Positioned myself as the anxious parent they have to manage

Instead, because I let it go, nothing happened.

Which is exactly what needed to happen.

What This Taught Me About Letting Go

Here's what I learned on that perfectly good Sunday that almost got destroyed by my trauma brain:

Lesson #1: Your Anxiety Doesn't Predict Reality

My brain was absolutely convinced something terrible had happened.

Heart racing. Palms sweating. Catastrophic scenarios playing on repeat.

And my brain was 100% wrong.

They were fine. They were just napping.

Your anxiety feels like truth. But it's usually just your trauma brain practicing worst-case scenarios without your permission.

Lesson #2: The Urge to Act Is Not the Same as Needing to Act

I wanted SO BADLY to keep texting, keep calling, get someone on the phone to tell me they were okay.

That urge felt overwhelming. Urgent. Like I HAD to do something.

But I didn't.

I sat with the discomfort of not knowing. I tolerated the anxiety without medicating it through control.

And nothing bad happened because I didn't act.

In fact, something GOOD happened: I didn't create a problem where none existed.

Lesson #3: Letting Go Protects Relationships

If I'd acted on my panic, I would have made my son responsible for managing my anxiety.

Every time they didn't respond immediately, they'd feel guilty. Obligated. Managed.

That's not a healthy relationship. That's emotional hostage-taking.

By letting go—by choosing to self-regulate instead of making my anxiety their emergency—I protected our relationship.

They don't have to manage me. I can manage myself.

That's the gift of letting go.

Lesson #4: Grounding in the Present Moment Is a Superpower

The moment I returned to what was actually happening (me, couch, football, safety), my nervous system began to regulate.

Not because the situation changed. They still weren't answering.

But because I stopped living in the disaster movie and came back to reality.

What's actually happening right now? Nothing. Everything is fine.

Staying present is how you stop anxiety from stealing your peace.

How to Stop Your Anxiety From Hijacking Your Day

So what do you do when your trauma brain tries to ruin a perfectly good Sunday?

Here's the framework:

1. Recognize the Outsized Reaction "This panic is way bigger than the situation warrants. This is trauma, not reality."

2. Feel the Feelings Without Acting on Them You can be anxious AND not send panicked texts. Feelings are information, not instructions.

3. Challenge the Catastrophic Thinking "What's the most likely explanation? What evidence do I actually have? Has my anxiety ever been right about these scenarios?"

4. Ground Yourself in the Present "What's actually happening right now? Am I safe? Is there an actual emergency, or just an imagined one?"

5. Let It Go Don't text again. Don't call repeatedly. Don't make your anxiety their problem. Tolerate the discomfort of not knowing.

This is what letting go in love actually looks like.

Not because you don't care. Not because you're being passive.

But because you love them enough to manage your own nervous system instead of making it their responsibility.

The Question That Changes Everything

Here's the question I want you to sit with this week:

"Whose anxiety am I trying to manage right now—theirs or mine?"

Because most of the time, when we're frantically trying to "help" or "check in" or "make sure everything's okay," we're not actually responding to their need.

We're trying to regulate our own anxiety by controlling them.

And the irony is, the more we try to control them to feel better, the worse we actually feel.

Because control is exhausting. And it doesn't work.

But letting go? Letting go actually brings peace.

So the next time your brain writes a disaster movie because someone didn't text back:

Recognize it. Feel it. Challenge it. Ground yourself. Let it go.

And then go back to watching football.

Because they're probably just napping.

Take the Next Step

Tired of your anxiety hijacking perfectly good days? My $17 "Letting Go In Love" course teaches you how to manage your own nervous system instead of trying to control everyone around you. Learn the practical tools for staying present when your trauma brain wants to spiral.

Remember: Your anxiety doesn't predict reality. Your urge to act isn't the same as needing to act. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is... absolutely nothing. Let go, stay present, and trust that everything is probably fine. (They're probably just napping.)

Has your trauma brain ever written disaster movies about unanswered texts? Share in the comments—your story might help someone else realize they're not alone in their catastrophic thinking.