One simple word helped an anxious mother find peace.
I sat down at the piano and felt unexpectedly peaceful. The heavy weight of my months-long struggle with anxiety seemed to dissolve like a fog burning off in the morning sunlight. My fingers traced along the cool black-and-white piano keys as I focused my eyes on the familiar Christmas music before me.
This annual Christmas gathering, a casual and festive musical program held at my dear friend’s home, had been a highlight of my family’s holiday season for years. The evening was all things
merry and bright, and we happily attended—sharing music, food, and good cheer.
But this year I felt uncharacteristically reluctant to attend. I had been struggling with my mental health for months, and the fractured sleep and chronic anxiety cast a shadow on my mind that even the most twinkly Christmas lights could not dispel. I mourned the fact that another holiday season had been tainted by mental illness and worried about its effects on my children. Frankly, turning out the light, crawling into bed, and pulling the covers over my head felt like a more fitting way to spend the December evening.
Instead, I did what I had been doing for weeks—putting one foot in front of the other, a depressing take on the adage “just keep swimming.” As I did so, I commiserated with President Jeffrey R. Holland’s apt words, describing mental illness as “those who endure conflicts fought in the lonely foxholes of the heart, those trying to hold back floodwaters of despair that sometimes wash over us like a tsunami of the soul.”
As the musical evening commenced, the sincere love, warmth, and connection that permeated the home full of friends began to lift my spirits. I enjoyed watching friends perform merry music and recite festive poetry, all amid the flickering glow of countless candles scattered about the room. We laughed, we cried, and I was grateful to be there.
When the time came to close the evening with Christmas carols, my friend invited me to accompany the group at the piano. I happily agreed. We sang our way through classic songs, ending with a rousing rendition of “Joy to the World.” I energetically played the accompaniment as the collection of friends sang in impromptu harmony behind me.
The singing was celestial—so much so that I had to look over my shoulder to confirm that this group of ordinary people hadn’t been replaced by a choir of angels. My heart filled with undiluted joyas I tried to keep pace and play through tear-filled eyes. It was the first time I’d felt hope and connection with God all season. Then a nagging thought entered my mind:
Haley. You can’t be happy right now. You’re anxious, remember?
You can’t have a Merry Christmas. You’re a mess.
Don’t waste your time celebrating. You are just going to go home and fall apart.
As these thoughts entered my brain, the color seemed to drain from the room, morphing vibrant greens, reds, and golds into sickly shades of gray. It was a dreaded and all too familiar effect of anxiety.
But then the Spirit spoke an equally powerful thought into my mind: and.
One simple word. A humble conjunction. But that word transformed the moment—and subsequently my life—as I realized:
I can enjoy this joyful moment and feel anxious later. I can hurt and feel God’s love. I can struggle and be just the mother my children need.
With that revelation ringing in my mind, I remained present and savored the soul-stirring songs of worship. I felt alive and loved by God. I realized that I no longer had to choose between two emotions—either uncomfortable anxiety or encouraging hope. I could accept the “opposition in all things” and hold space for both human experiences.
Since that memorable December night, I’ve carried the and mindset into every aspect of my life. It has transformed my relationship with my family, myself, and God. I am learning to radically accept the hard, tedious, and disappointing parts of life and seek support, cultivate hope, and foster connection. Because in the end both things are true. In the end, and.
