The Dragon the Knight Could Not Slay

by M. Joseph Boehler

We spend so much of our waking lives fighting dragons.

The core of worry is a quiet betrayal of the present, a danger crafted from the silence within our own minds. These beasts build in the stillness of night; growing nowhere but in the dark spaces within ourselves until they feel as solid as the ground beneath our feet. It is a strange habit, isn't it? To torment ourselves over storms that have not yet gathered. We conjure dragons to slay while we sleep, only to wake exhausted, arms raised against a beast that was never there.

There is a difference between heeding a warning light and building a mythology around what might lurk in the dark: distinguishing them in the moment is harder than it sounds. We must stop treating every invented threat like inevitability. Not because all worry is false, but because so much of it is.

Trace the source of worry back far enough. Past the dragons, past the storms, arms still raised, that heavy burning within our being refusing to quiet. And you arrive somewhere simpler: everything ends. This truth is the reality we carry. Not just the grand things or the distant horizon, but us, the people we love, and the very days we are living right now. And sitting with it is not gentle work; it resists at first, reaching for anything but the uncomfortable, even an imagined threat. But what if we view this truth differently, without our armor and sword, turning towards it instead of away? What if knowing that it all eventually stops is exactly what untethers us from the battles within ourselves? Because if the clock is truly winding down, worrying about a monster that might never come is nothing more than stealing from the only time we actually hold.

There will be days this knowing will sit lightly. Other days, it will press outward from your very being like a breath held too long. Eventually, you will learn to trust yourself and trust the air filling your lungs.

Do not fight fear by trying to slay the false dragon. Instead, listen to the real ticking of the clock. Trust that you hold awareness honestly for the day in front of you, not dreading imagined days ahead. Let the certainty of the end bear that load for you. It shouldn't haunt our dawn; it should soften it. Allowing the awareness of the inevitable to quiet our inner pacing and pacing, and gently set us forward again.