On anxiety, overwhelm, and what happens when you actually show up for the moment in front of you.
I have been in a season of too much. Too many decisions stacked on top of each other, too many tabs open in my brain, too many things that feel urgent all at once. Maybe you know this feeling. Maybe you’re in it right now.
Here’s what I’ve noticed about overwhelm: it doesn’t want you to solve everything. It just wants all of your attention at once. And the moment you try to hold every single thing simultaneously — it wins. You freeze. You scroll. You do nothing, which somehow feels worse than the everything you were trying to avoid.
The thing that’s been helping me? One event. One thing. One room. One decision at a time. Just — be there. Fully. For that one thing.
1989, MY COUSIN’S HOUSE, AND ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD ME
I grew up a sports kid because of my dad. He loved all of it, and so I loved all of it (most of the time). NASCAR was part of the rotation.
It’s February 1989. I’m eleven years old, at my cousin’s house, watching the Daytona 500. On that track: Darrell Waltrip, Dale Earnhardt, Davey Allison, A.J. Foyt, Rusty Wallace. The greats. All of them. The room is loud in the way only a race in a living room full of people rooting for different drivers can be loud.
And Darrell Waltrip wins. After seventeen tries, he finally wins Daytona. And somewhere in the joy of that moment, he gives the world a phrase that will outlive almost everything else he ever said:
Boogity boogity boogity, boys — let’s go racin’.
Eleven-year-old me had no idea she would carry that out of that room that day. She just knew something had happened, and the phrase was awesome.
CLARK, RICK, AND EVERY POST-RACE MONDAY
Fast forward to 2007. I’m living in Kansas City, and in a new job and I meet Clark and Rick.
Clark is a gay Blasian man — brilliant, hilarious, the kind of person who makes everything feel slightly more interesting than you thought it was. We were so alike that we used to look at each other and say, I love talking to myself. That’s a rare and joyous friendship. Rick is an older white gentleman — steady and thoughtful, pragmatic, the kind of person who holds the world gently because he’s seen enough of it. Clark and I are grateful to have him in our circle. Three people who had no obvious business being as close as we became, except that we were.
Every post-race Monday, without fail, we found each other, in the break room, the hallway, or an office. And we debriefed. Clark would walk in and announce it like a proclamation — it’s race day — and that was that. We were off.
Somewhere along the way, Darrell Waltrip’s line became ours. We used it constantly. Boogity boogity boogity, boys — let’s go racin’. Said with full commitment. Said often. Said the way you say something when it belongs to your people.
Now, I’ll be honest — I was firmly in the “Kyle Freaking Busch” camp. Said in that particular tone that means complicated feelings. But Rick? Rick would just look at me and say it plain: say what you want , you don’t have to like him but — he’s a great driver. Not argued. Not defended. Just stated, with the quiet certainty of someone who knew what they were looking at. I think I rolled my eyes a time or two, lol.
Rick was right. Even I knew it.
THE STOCKING CAP
Three years ago, Clark was battling cancer.
I want you to sit with that for a second, because I did. Clark — brilliant, hilarious, it’s race day Clark — sitting in a chemo chair.
I didn’t know what to do with the bigness of that. So I did the only thing that felt true: I had boogity boogity boogity boys, let’s go racin’ embroidered on a stocking cap and sent it to him for his chemo sessions and hard days to let him know, this friend was rooting for him.
Because sometimes you can’t be there in person. And sometimes a hat has to say it for you.
What it said was: I see you. I remember us. We have a thing, and the thing still exists, and so do you, and so do I, and that matters.
THE TEXT I SENT FROM SECTION 79, RIGHT AFTER TURN 4 INTO THE STRAIGHT AWAY
This past weekend, I went to the Indianapolis 500 with Geoff. It was his Christmas present. Weekends together — whole, uninterrupted, just-us weekends — don’t happen as much as either of us would like. So this one was sacred before it even started.
We’re sitting at our seats waiting for the race to start, and hovering over everything, quietly and heavily, was the news of Kyle Busch’s passing. I sat there next to Geoff and I thought of Clark and Rick — the way you need people who hold a specific pocket of your history. So I sent a group text.
MY GROUP TEXT TO CLARK & RICK
“As I sit at the Indy 500 this morning waiting for the race to start, I’ve been thinking of you both this week as I heard of the passing of Kyle Freaking Busch — and I remember how much fun we had and how many laughs we had! Big hugs my friends! Miss you and love you both. Now, let’s go racin’.”
That text was presence too. Sitting next to the person you love, in a moment you worked to make happen, and pausing to tell dear friends you were thinking of them — that’s not a distraction from the day. That’s what the day is made of.
Clark, in his way, like time didn’t lapse – said, It’s Race Day and Rick wrote back with something I hadn’t thought about in years. He pointed out that there are TV stations across the country airing that race, generating ad revenue, doing what they do — because of the work of our team.
Our work. Still running. Still broadcasting. Still counting.
You don’t always know the shape of what you’re building while you’re building it. Memories. Friendships. The infrastructure for ad revenue. Sometimes an old friend reminds you — years later, from across the country, while you’re sitting listening to cars zoom past you at 219 mph and next to someone you love.
THE NO THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN HONORED
I can’t write about Kyle Busch without saying this part.
Kyle died from pneumonia that progressed into sepsis — something that can start feeling like just being a little off, just not quite right, just something you push through.
And I keep coming back to something I believe with everything in me: the no — when something feels off — is sacred.
We live in a culture that celebrates pushing through. (I’m VERY guilty of this for myself). That rewards people who silence the internal signal, who keep going when everything in them is saying wait or stop or something is wrong. We call that toughness. We give it a trophy.
But that signal — that pause inside you that says this doesn’t feel right — is not weakness. It is not inconvenience. It is your body, your spirit, your God-given instinct trying to protect you.
Honoring the no is not giving up. It is wisdom. It is self-trust. It is, sometimes, the difference between everything and nothing.
Where are you overriding your own signal right now? Where are you pushing through something that is quietly — or not so quietly — asking you to pause?
THE GENTLE PAUSE
This is what I want for us this week. Not a system. Not a strategy. Just this:
Pick one thing. Be in one room. Give someone a sacred weekend. Send the text to the people who hold a specific pocket of your history. And when you can’t be there in person — let the hat say it.
And if something in you says no — or wait — or not yet — please, please listen. That signal is not your enemy. It is the most honest thing about you.
One thing at a time. That’s the whole practice.
Boogity boogity boogity, friends — let’s go racin’.
With so much love, big hugs, and always rooting for you!
Stacy
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