The Weight of Worry

The Weight of Worry

Twelve-year-old Sam was a worrier. He worried about everything. Big tests. Forgotten homework. Whether his friends really liked him. If the world was getting too hot. If his parents were going to fight again. If the dog had eaten something weird. If the power would go out during the night.

To most people, Sam seemed like a regular kid—quiet, polite, maybe a little anxious. But inside, his mind was like a constantly spinning wheel, always turning over possibilities, fears, and “what ifs.”

It started small, like a single cloud in a blue sky. But one day, that cloud turned into a storm.

The trouble began on a Wednesday morning, when Sam’s teacher, Mrs. Keller, handed out permission slips for the school’s annual overnight field trip to Pine Ridge Camp.

Sam stared at the paper like it was a death sentence.

One night away from home. No parents. No familiar bedtime routine. Sleeping in a cabin with other kids. What if he forgot something important? What if he got sick in the middle of the night? What if he couldn’t sleep? What if they got lost on a hike? What if, what if, what if?

“Just bring it back by Friday,” Mrs. Keller said, smiling as she moved down the rows of desks.

Sam held the paper with trembling hands.

That night at dinner, his mom was cheerful. “The field trip sounds like fun! You’ll get to hike, roast marshmallows, even go canoeing!”

Sam didn’t answer. He picked at his mashed potatoes and tried to smile.

Later that night, alone in his room, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

He imagined every worst-case scenario. A tick bite. A bear. Falling in the lake. Being the only one who got homesick. A stomachache. Kids laughing at him. Losing his inhaler. Cabin fires. Storms.

Sleep didn’t come.

The next morning, he dragged himself to school like a zombie.

Over the next two days, Sam didn’t tell anyone he hadn’t turned in the form. Not his mom. Not his teacher. Not his best friend Dylan. Instead, he kept worrying. He wrote lists. He googled “how to prepare for camp” and read them over and over. He secretly packed and repacked a bag three times. He even tried sleeping on the floor one night to “train” for the hard bunks he imagined.

But none of it made him feel better. He still couldn’t breathe right. He still felt sick.

Friday came. The deadline.

During math, Mrs. Keller paused by his desk.

“Sam, did you bring your form?”

Sam opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She tilted her head. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. But I think you’d really enjoy it.”

He nodded stiffly. She moved on.

At recess, Dylan caught up to him. “Hey, man, we should bunk together. I’m bringing my mini speaker. We can play our songs at night, yeah?”

Sam nodded again, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t deserve Dylan’s kindness. He hadn’t even turned in the form. And now it was too late.

That night, he broke down.

“I didn’t hand it in,” he told his mom, sobbing on the couch. “I wanted to, but I was so scared. I kept worrying and worrying, and now I ruined it. It’s too late.”

His mom pulled him into a hug. “Oh, honey. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought I could fix it if I kept thinking about it. But I didn’t fix anything. I just made it worse.”

She kissed his forehead. “That’s the thing about worry. It tricks us into thinking we’re doing something helpful. But it’s like a rocking chair—it gives us something to do, but it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

Sam blinked at her.

She squeezed his hand. “Let’s call Mrs. Keller. We’ll explain. Maybe there’s still time.”

So they did.

And there *was* still time.

Monday, Sam handed in the form.

All week, he still worried. But something had shifted. He talked about his fears. He asked questions. He made real plans. Not just panicky lists.

When Friday came and the bus pulled out of the school parking lot, Sam’s heart was still nervous—but it wasn’t drowning in fear.

The camp was different than he imagined. The cabins were cozy. The food was surprisingly good. He did get a little homesick the first night, but Dylan was there. They whispered funny stories until they both fell asleep. No bears, no disasters. Just kids, nature, and s’mores.

On the second day, after a long hike, Sam stood at the edge of the lake. The water was glassy and calm. Canoes bobbed at the dock.

He hesitated.

“Want to go together?” Dylan asked.

Sam swallowed. “Okay.”

They climbed in. The boat wobbled a little, but once they found their rhythm, it was actually kind of…peaceful.

“Glad you came?” Dylan asked.

Sam looked out over the water. The sun glittered on the surface like a thousand tiny stars.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

That night, wrapped in his sleeping bag, Sam thought about all the time he’d spent worrying. Days and nights wasted in fear. And none of the bad things had happened. The ones that *did*—like feeling homesick—he’d managed just fine.

Worry hadn’t saved him. It had only robbed him of peace.

He couldn’t promise himself he’d never worry again. But maybe next time, he wouldn’t let it control him.

Maybe next time, he’d ask for help sooner.

Maybe next time, he’d remind himself: worrying doesn’t solve the problem.

Facing it does.