Watch or listen:
Vodcast | Podcast
Your Anxiety Isn’t Welcome Here
Your Anxiety Isn’t Welcome Here is part of a collection of true stories written along Route 66 by Chaplain Christopher Tuttle, host of Faith and Good Courage.
You know that feeling, when you open your eyes and your chest is already tight? Like the day started hours before you showed up and it’s sprinting without you. That quiet kind of panic that never shouts… but never shuts up either. It rolls the highlight reel of bills you forgot, calls you dodged, promises you made to become a better version of yourself by now. Yeah. That one.
It thrives in places built for speed: fluorescent lights, pinging apps, five-lane freeways where eye contact feels like confrontation. But out here on Route 66? That noise fizzles fast. I didn’t know it the first time I nosed my truck onto that cracked alignment, I’d been rolling west for hours, still carrying the city on my shoulders. But somewhere between the last cattle guard and the faded motel sign, I felt something give, a long, slow exhale I’d been holding since two jobs ago. The road didn’t care about résumés or unread emails. It just stretched ahead and muttered, “You good? Let’s ride.”
Your Anxiety Isn’t Welcome Here
I stopped in Shamrock, Texas on a whim. The old Conoco station caught my eye, green neon trim, red pumps, paint curling back in the panhandle sun. No itinerary. No agenda. I just… got out. And the part of me that’s always five steps ahead finally sat down. I wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t late. I was just … present. That’s the therapy of this old road. It doesn’t hand you five steps to inner peace. It just gets quiet… quieter than you’re used to… and little by little, so do you. My phone had gone silent. My shoulders migrated back to their rightful ZIP code. I caught myself humming along to the radio fuzz and felt victorious.
Near Tucumcari, the land explodes into widescreen. Sky big enough to swallow worry whole. One night I rolled into a chipped-paint motel. Real key, leather fob, no swipe. Sat out front with foam-cup coffee, watched purple spill into bronze across the horizon. Didn’t check email. Didn’t plan tomorrow. Just let the desert breathe for me. That moment; simple, still, unoptimized beat a month of “productive” days back home.
Here’s the truth: Anxiety is not your identity. It’s just a flare, a blinking dash light. And on this cracked ribbon of asphalt that refuses to rush, you finally have space to hear what it’s been trying to say: “Slow down. Something’s off.” Route 66 won’t fix you. But it will hand you time. Silence. Maybe a half-greasy burger that tastes like grace at a counter where nobody cares who you are. And that can be enough.
So if your chest feels tight before your feet hit the floor… spin the compass west, or east, doesn’t matter, just aim for pavement that’s older than your problems. Don’t over-plan. Just drive. Let the wind, the static, and the half-lit neon do their slow magic. And when that anxious voice creeps back, and it will… you’ll know how to answer: “I’m okay. I’m here. And that’s enough.”
Healing Highway is a monthly video and stand-alone podcast rooted in mental wellness, spiritual reflection, and lived experience along Route 66. Each episode blends real stories with warm humor, plain-spoken faith, and practical insight for everyday life.
These stories are filmed in ordinary places — diners, quiet overlooks, motel parking lots, small towns that still believe kindness is a reasonable way to live. No hype. No hurry. No performance. Just storytelling, honesty, and the reminder that healing usually begins with one small step.