Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Think of all the terrible things
that never came to pass.
The conversations rehearsed
a hundred different ways,
the catastrophes imagined
in the quiet before sleep,
the endings written
for stories
that had barely begun.
Think of the hours
spent preparing for heartbreak,
the mornings surrendered
to the possibility of disaster,
the beautiful, ordinary afternoons
given over to a future
that had not yet arrived.
And how convincing it all seemed.
How easily fear
could dress itself as foresight,
how often worry
was mistaken for wisdom,
as though anticipating sorrow
might somehow make it kinder
when it came.
But the mind
is a terrible place
to spend a lifetime waiting
for things to go wrong.
And time,
that indifferent little thief,
never returns
what fear has taken.
There are sunsets
that went unnoticed,
laughter that passed
without being fully heard,
entire conversations
half-lived
while the heart was elsewhere,
busy surviving
some imagined tomorrow.
And most of those tomorrows
arrived without incident.
The terrible news never came.
The worst was never realised.
The world continued turning,
quite unconcerned
with all the suffering
that had already been endured
on its behalf.
What a strange tragedy,
to grieve so many things
that never happened.
To pay in precious hours
for misfortunes
that never asked
to be suffered.
And still,
there is no life
entirely free of worry.
No heart that does not sometimes
wander ahead of itself,
searching the darkness
for something
it might be able to prevent.
Perhaps that is simply
the price of loving anything
in a world
where nothing is promised.
But there comes a day
when time stops being
an endless succession
of possible tomorrows.
A day when the last morning
has already happened,
the final conversation
has already ended,
and all the things
left for later
must remain
forever undone.
There is no bargaining
with such an ending.
No returning
to the hours
spent fearing what might come,
no exchanging them
for one more afternoon
of what was already there.
And perhaps
there would never have been
enough time.
Perhaps even a hundred years
would leave a thousand wishes
unfulfilled.
But how much of a life
must be surrendered
to the fear of losing it?
How many beautiful moments
must pass unnoticed
before it becomes clear
that the future
was never ours
to protect?
Let tomorrow come
with whatever sorrow
it intends to bring.
Let the difficult things
be difficult
when they arrive.
There will be time enough
to suffer what is real,
until, one day,
there isn't.
And when the final hour comes,
may there be fewer memories
of waiting for disaster
and more of having lived
despite its possibility.
Because somewhere
among all the horrible things
that never happened
were a thousand lovely things
that did.
And they were here.
They were here
the whole time.
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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:
How much of a lifetime do we surrender to things that never happen? All of the Horrible Things That Never Happened is a poignant reflection on worry, the quiet cruelty of imagined catastrophes, and the precious hours we sacrifice preparing for futures that may never arrive. It explores the heartbreaking irony of spending so much of our limited time fearing what might go wrong, only to discover that time itself was the one thing we could never afford to lose. For anyone who has ever lain awake rehearsing disasters, postponed happiness until everything felt certain, or forgotten to notice the beauty of an ordinary day while waiting for something terrible to happen. 💚