When Terror Strikes

Past and Present Meet, and the Heart Chooses Openness

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I was out today picking up groceries for a recipe I was excited to try. As I carefully navigated through the parking lot and began to exit, I caught a sudden flash of bright orange in my peripheral vision—a man's shirt, vibrant against the gray asphalt. It was just the briefest glimpse, barely registering in my conscious awareness. Then, glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw him dramatically throw his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of alarm, as if I had nearly collided with him, though I hadn't felt any such close call. With deliberate movements that seemed almost rehearsed, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his smartphone, and methodically took a photograph of my license plate.

I genuinely wasn't even aware of him crossing the parking lot before that moment. Nothing in my field of vision had alerted me to his presence until that flash of orange caught my eye and then looking through my rear view mirror and seeing his gestures and frantically taking a picture of my license plate. And yet... the terror that immediately shot through my entire nervous system was instantaneous and hauntingly familiar: *What if I innocently did something wrong without realizing it? What if I'm about to be in serious trouble for something I don’t understand or didn’t even do?* My heart began racing, my palms instantly slick with sweat against the steering wheel.

It was precisely the same visceral terror I knew all too well from my tumultuous teenage years, when my intoxicated mother would suddenly come thundering down the staircase in our home, her face contorted with rage, loudly accusing me of betrayal and disloyalty (specifically for refusing to join her in viciously criticizing and belittling my stepmother). Her explosive anger would rapidly escalate beyond any reasonable proportion until she was frantically pulling my clothes from drawers and closets, throwing them haphazardly into a weathered suitcase, dragging it forcefully outside despite my pleading, and vindictively scattering my personal belongings across our front yard for all the neighbors to witness. Then, in the dramatic finale of these terrifying episodes, she would storm to her car, slam the door with house-shaking force, and recklessly drive off into the darkness, clearly intoxicated and dangerously impaired.

In those devastating moments of abandonment and chaos, my adolescent mind spun its own particularly cruel self-punishments to make sense of the senseless: *If she crashes tonight, it will be entirely my fault for upsetting her. If something terrible happens, I'll never forgive myself.* I unconsciously carried the overwhelming belief that I was fundamentally responsible for keeping her emotionally regulated and physically safe—and by extension, somehow responsible for keeping the entire fragile world from shattering into irreparable pieces around me.

That's precisely the same electrical charge running through my nervous system right now, decades later, triggered by a stranger's gesture in a parking lot. My predictive brain is operating in desperate overdrive, frantically inventing increasingly catastrophic scenarios in its misguided attempt to keep me safe from imagined threats: *What if I actually did do something dangerous without realizing it? What if the police show up at my door tonight with that photo evidence? What if this escalates into something that disrupts the careful balance of my current life? What if...* The possibilities spiral endlessly, each more dire than the last.

So here I sit, perched anxiously on the edge of my comfortable couch, watching the unresolved memories of my past bleeding uncontrollably into my present moment, doing my absolute best not to let this familiar downward spiral completely overwhelm me and pull me under into its depths. My breathing is shallow, my muscles tense, my thoughts racing between past and present in disorienting waves.

When I was much younger, living through those intense nights, I gradually learned that even the most terrifying storm would eventually pass with time. My mother would inevitably return home, sometimes apologetic, sometimes pretending nothing had happened. I'd cautiously go to bed, hyper-vigilant even in sleep. The next day would begin with a deceptive freshness—a temporary reprieve—until night descended once again, bringing its unpredictable possibilities. That cyclical pattern, despite its inherent danger, paradoxically provided its own peculiar kind of predictability. At least I knew what to expect in its broad outlines, even if the specific details remained chaotically uncertain.

But what might a truly *unpredictable* response look like in my adult life now? Could I possibly take an entirely different action in this moment rather than simply rehearsing the worst possible outcomes and preparing for imaginary catastrophes that may never materialize? What other possibilities exist beyond my habitual reactions to perceived threats?

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, another possibility gently slips into my awareness, offering a different perspective. *What if this uncomfortable encounter is exactly what needed to happen today—for both of us, for reasons neither of us can fully comprehend?* My logical mind immediately balks at this seemingly irrational suggestion. And yet, when I sit with it longer, I recognize an undeniable truth: this encounter did actually happen, regardless of whether I wanted it to or not. Perhaps this doesn't inevitably have to culminate in disaster or crisis. Perhaps there's space for something entirely different to unfold.

This unexpected thought reminds me of the ancient Zen parable I've always found so profound: A hardworking farmer's horse runs away and the neighbors lament his misfortune. He replies, “maybe so, maybe not” The horse returns, bringing several wild horses with it. The neighbors rejoice in the farmer's good fortune. The farmer says, "Maybe so, maybe not." The farmer's son breaks his leg while trying to tame one of the wild horses. The neighbors express their sorrow. The farmer replies, "Maybe so, maybe not." Several days later, government officials arrive in the village, conscripting all able-bodied young men to fight in a dangerous war. The farmer's son, still recovering from his injury, cannot be taken. "What incredibly good fortune you have!" exclaim the villagers. With the same equanimity, the farmer replies, "Maybe so, maybe not. We shall see." The story continues through multiple reversals, each seeming disaster revealing unexpected benefits, each apparent blessing concealing unforeseen challenges.

How will I ever truly know what life is asking of me in any given moment? Why do I persistently try to keep certain experiences at bay, as if I could somehow control the powerful, unpredictable river of existence through sheer force of will? What might happen if I simply allowed the current to carry me sometimes, trusting its ancient wisdom over my limited perspective?

This remains the most challenging aspect of existence for me—recognizing how profoundly my early experiences with childhood chaos methodically trained me to believe that if I just remained vigilant enough, planned meticulously enough, and tried hard enough, I could somehow make everything in my life turn out perfectly okay. That if I just figured out the right combination of behaviors and responses, I could prevent pain and ensure safety for myself and everyone I cared about.

So, I sit here in my quiet living room, physically shaking with residual adrenaline, intentionally welcoming the terror rather than resisting it, gradually softening toward this uncomfortable sensation instead of tensing against it. I gently remind myself of what I'm still learning to believe: my complicated past was not a mistake to be erased or corrected. The very painful experiences I would have desperately eliminated from my history if given the choice are precisely the ones that painstakingly built my exceptional resilience, my boundless imagination, and my remarkable fortitude in the face of life's inevitable challenges.

This particular round of what Byron Katie calls Earth School is fundamentally not within my control, no matter how desperately I might wish otherwise. The only thing I *can* genuinely know with absolute certainty is that I am, at my core, an expression of love itself—in all its beautifully messy, gloriously unpredictable, and sometimes terrifyingly vulnerable forms.

• When fear takes over, what is the most unpredictable thing I could do instead of feeding the spiral?

• What parts of my past might hold gifts I’ve never allowed myself to see?

• If I release the need to make sure everything turns out “okay,” what opens up in me?