Where Presence Lives, Fear Cannot
When we live fully in the present moment, there is no room for fear.
In this time of uncertainty, where are you living? Where is your awareness residing?
When we live in the past, we ruminate—fixating, replaying, reimagining what was. We are no longer here. When we live in the future, we inhabit the unknown, where worry, fear, and anxiety shape our lives. By thought alone, we activate the stress response and dysregulate our nervous system.
When you enter this moment fully, fear dissolves—not because life is safe, but because it is alive. The moment unfolds without commentary. Light pours through the window. A field stretches into dusk. Breath rises and falls on its own. An ancient, wordless knowing stirs and remembers.
I witness this in real time when I spend time with my mom.
At 97 years old, one might expect fear to creep in as death comes close. To live this long is itself a miracle—less than five percent of the population reaches 97. Sitting with her last weekend, she smiled, looked into my eyes, and said, “How is my Catherine?” Aside from the normal adjustments of moving into assisted living this past year and the occasional, treatable infection, she takes no medications and has a clean bill of health.
She has entered a simpler way of being. A small room. Fewer belongings. Minimal medicine. And yet—her presence fills the space. When I sit beside her, my own edges soften. The mind loosens its grip. Her gaze is steady, deep, unhurried—like a lake that reflects whatever comes near without disturbance. Her gaze looks straight into my soul.
Grace lives here.
I asked if she had any fear or unrest. “No.”
I asked if she was afraid of death or dying. Again, “No.”
She paused and said, “Once in a while it comes to me that I am old, but I don’t think about it much.”
My questions seemed to catch her off guard—as if fear simply doesn’t live in her world.
As a chaplain who has sat beside thousands of people at the end of life, I find myself deeply curious about how my mother inhabits this stage of living. I feel no thread of fear in her, no restless energy. Her presence alone brings me back into my own. The prevailing sense is simple and profound: all is well, and all will be well.
I am being taught, moment by moment, what it looks like to live in deep presence. What it looks like to live embodying love instead of fear. What it means to be so present that there is only room for grace - where love and kindness fill the spaces between us.
In a world that feels increasingly restless - where I hear daily suffering in my private practice and feel the palpable tension in the air in Minneapolis - I find refuge in my mother’s small room, as we sit breathing the same air. There, I remember what peace feels like.
Sitting together, I sense we are both being held by God - held beyond the chaos, beyond the anxiety, into the simple truth of now. Into love.
I know these moments are precious. I cherish our time together, the long hugs that fill my heart. Breathing in love, breathing out love. Love is the healing balm.
Embodying presence is a practice. The more we come back, the stronger presence becomes. Over time, we learn to live here, now, in an awakened state. The mind may arise, but we can drop back into presence with ease.
Presence is not accidental. It is a remembering. Again and again, we notice when the mind wanders and gently return. Each return widens the doorway. Eventually, presence becomes the ground we stand on. Thoughts arise - but they no longer run the inner world.
This is called living an awakened life. It is here for all of us.
It is not reserved for the elderly, the wise, or the near-dying.
It is here.
Waiting.
Now.
