A Simple Practice That’s Keeping Me Out of Catastrophic Thinking

For most of my life, I lived with an internal alarm system that never turned off. I expected disaster around every corner—financial collapse, professional failure, health crises, humiliation, and loss. Catastrophic thinking wasn’t just a habit; it felt like responsibility. It felt like vigilance. It felt like survival.

As a documentary filmmaker, anticipating the unexpected is part of the job. We learn to obsess over what could go wrong—equipment failures, weather shifts, emotional volatility, permissions falling apart, safety concerns, or a once-in-a-lifetime moment slipping away. We become experts at scanning for danger, preparing for the failure before it arrives. It isn’t neurosis—it’s craft. It’s training. It’s how we keep the work alive.

But somewhere along the way, the survival mindset that served my professional life began dominating my personal life. My nervous system became a permanent emergency broadcast network. Even when I wasn’t filming, I braced for impact—every hour, every day, every night. Instead of protecting me, fear began consuming me.

And I didn’t know how to stop.

Not long ago, after a series of intense months—fighting for disability accommodations due to declining vision from macular degeneration, struggling financially, supporting my adult children, and caregiving daily for my ninety-six-year-old mother—I reached a breaking point. I felt hollowed out, depleted, and terrified of the future.

One morning, while sitting with my mother, something unexpected happened. We were both exhausted, and the room was heavy with silence. Then she laughed—one of those rare, pure, bright laughs that sound like they belong to a much younger person. It filled the room like sunlight.

And something inside me shifted.

For the first time in years, I heard a different voice within me—quiet, gentle, unfamiliar. It said:

“Something good is going to happen.”

I didn’t trust it. I tried to push it away. My old reflexes argued immediately:

Don’t get your hopes up. Prepare for disaster. Protect yourself.

But the voice returned, steady and calm:

“No. Really. Something good is coming.”

It felt like the first deep breath after years underwater.

Catastrophic thinking once served me. On a documentary set, when crisis hits, rapid reaction can save the day. You don’t have time to collapse. You act. You adapt. You move.

But there is a difference between reaction and response.

Reaction is panic.
Response is presence.

Reaction is fear.
Response is awareness.

Reaction is the body gripping.
Response is the mind opening.

I spent years reacting—to life, to pressure, to loss, to uncertainty. I was constantly bracing. I mistook tension for strength.

But filmmaking taught me something I had forgotten: The work only succeeds when we are fully present—not clenched, not afraid.

A filmmaker must learn to hold chaos without becoming it.

And a human being must, too.

Since that moment with my mother, I have been experimenting with a simple practice. When fear tries to take over, I pause and ask:

“What if something good happens instead?”

Not as fantasy. Not as denial. As possibility.

When catastrophic thoughts begin their familiar cycle, I say:

“Thank you for trying to protect me. But I’m choosing hope now.”

And slowly, something extraordinary is happening: I am learning to expect good instead of disaster.

Nothing external has changed—yet. My finances are still fragile. My vision is still declining. Caregiving is still demanding. The future is still uncertain.

But internally, everything is different.

I have stopped bracing. I have stopped rehearsing collapse. I have stopped assuming the worst.

And in place of fear, something new has begun growing: A grounded, humble, earned hope.

I find myself making decisions from possibility instead of panic: supporting my son’s study trip to Spain even though money is tight; continuing to submit my writing and books despite rejection; advocating for disability rights with clarity instead of desperation; choosing trust instead of dread; and writing from openness rather than defense.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a new chapter. And maybe the feeling itself is the beginning of the good thing.

If your mind constantly prepares for disaster, I understand. I lived that way for decades.

But here’s what I am discovering:

Survival is not the same as living. Fear is not the same as wisdom. Preparation is not the same as panic.

Hope isn’t naïve. Hope isn’t weak. Hope isn’t foolish.

Hope is a choice. Hope is a discipline. Hope is resistance.

So here is the practice I am using now:

Morning

What is one good thing that might happen today?

Evening

Where did hope appear today—even in a small way?

In the hard moments

“Something good is coming. I am choosing to believe that.”

Because the mind can be rewired. The heart can reopen. The narrative can change.

And I believe this with everything in me now: Something good is coming.

I am ready for it. And you can be, too.