I stared at the contents, my racing thoughts crashing into the plainness of what lay in front of me. No threat, no secret message, no cruel twist of fate—just simple objects that had never deserved the terror I’d wrapped them in. Embarrassment burned first, hot and sharp, but it slowly gave way to something softer: recognition. The real danger had never been the cardboard, the tape, or the delivery. It had been the way I’d armed my imagination and pointed it at myself.
In the days after, that box became a quiet turning point. I started noticing how quickly my mind jumps from question to catastrophe, how often “I don’t know” becomes “I’m not safe.” Now, when life delivers something unexpected—a pause, a change, an unanswered message—I practice opening it gently. I let my fear stand beside me, not in front of me, and wait, patiently, for the truth to arrive.
