I’m not a physician, but I’m about as close as you can get. And as a highly trained liberal arts major, I’d like to give you a prescription.

Don’t worry.

Don’t make me say it twice.

Of course, I shouldn’t suggest such a thing. Trying to quit worrying is like trying to keep a pet squirrel.

I once had a pet squirrel—I’m not making this up—named Hank Williams Aaron. One day, I opened the cage to feed him. All I saw was a brown blur. Hank was halfway to Galveston before I could say his name.

My point: you can’t stop worrying. Because your mind is like a squirrel, the moment you open the door, it goes nuts, so to speak.

I don’t even know what I’m saying here.

The truth is, I was going to write about something else. But today, I saw a young girl crying outside the doctor’s office. It got to me.

She sat on a bench, head hung low. A puddle in her lap. People walked by, uninterested.

An old woman finally stopped and hugged the girl.

They exchanged no words. Only painful smiles.

Look, I know life isn’t fair. In fact it’s downright criminal. Flat tires, red bank accounts, relationship disasters, a bad diagnosis, busted bones. Death. I don’t know what fate dumped in your lap, but I know it stinks.

You have a right to worry, you’re a person. This world kicks you in the teeth, then steals your wallet. What kind of idiot would tell you not to worry?

Me.

Yesterday, I pulled out old photos. I thumbed through and saw images of my ancestors. They were poor. I’m talking lucky-to-make-it-past-forty poor.

Then, I found a few pictures of myself, awkward boy that I used to be. Chubby faced, freckled. That kid had a lot to learn—just like his poor ancestors did before him.

And it wasn’t all hopscotch and ping pong, either. You and I have learned the kinds of lessons that left us bleeding on the pavement.

So, even though I don’t know you from Adam’s older sister, I do know a little something about you. The things you’ve endured have made you, you. And you wouldn’t trade them for all the squirrels in Galveston.

I also know that these few paragraphs aren’t going to make a damn bit of difference in your life. But since you’ve read this far, I guess I want to say something.

It doesn’t matter what happens today, how dark the sky, or how bad you think it is.

I love you.

And it’s going to be all right.