When I was pregnant with my first son, I worried about pretty much everything that could possibly go wrong.

This was right around the time online baby boards were becoming a thing, which meant I suddenly had access to an endless supply of other people's pregnancy complications.

Not exactly helpful for an anxious pregnant woman.

I didn't eat soft serve ice cream. I didn't eat sushi. I read all the things. I worried about all the things.

And honestly, I didn't enjoy much of my pregnancy.

Then my son was born.

He was healthy.

None of the things I had spent nine months worrying about happened.

But something I had never even heard of did.

I had placenta accreta, a rare and potentially life-threatening complication. It wasn't on my list. It wasn't on the baby boards I was reading. It definitely wasn't on my pregnancy anxiety bingo card.

And there was absolutely nothing I could have done to predict or prevent it.

Thankfully, we both survived.

Afterward, I was told it might be difficult for me to get pregnant again.

Eventually I did.

And at 12 weeks, we learned there was no heartbeat.

We lost that baby.

So when I became pregnant again, my brain had evidence now.

Bad things had happened.

There was no talking myself into, "Everything will be fine."

I didn't know that everything would be fine.

But I also knew I couldn't spend another nine months trying to predict every possible way it might not be.

So I started doing something different.

Whenever my brain started traveling into the future — What if this happens? What if that happens? What if we lose this baby too? — I pictured myself at the end of the pregnancy, holding my baby.

Not because I believed that imagining it would make it happen.

It was simply a place to bring my attention when my brain wanted to rehearse every possible catastrophe.

Right now, I am pregnant.

Right now, I am okay.

And this is also possible.

That baby is now 18 years old and just started his freshman year of college.

And recently I realized I did the same thing all over again.

If you've ever sent a child off to college, you know how much uncertainty there is in that process.

Will he get in?

Will he choose the right school?

Will he find his people?

Will he like his roommate?

Will he be happy?

Will he actually remember to do laundry?

There is so much you cannot control — including, inconveniently, your 18-year-old child.

Throughout his senior year, whenever I noticed myself disappearing down one of those roads, I kept returning to one image.

I pictured myself standing with him in his dorm room and hearing him say:

"I'm so glad I'm here. This was the perfect choice for me."

And a few weeks ago, I stood in his dorm room.

And essentially, that's exactly what he said.

Again, I don't think I manifested this by imagining it.

I think the image kept me from missing the year leading up to it.

That's the part I've been thinking about.

Our brains predict because prediction is useful.

If I see dark clouds, I might predict rain and grab an umbrella.

That's a prediction I can act on.

But sometimes prediction becomes an attempt to eliminate uncertainty.

If I think about every possible outcome, maybe I won't be blindsided.

If I worry enough, maybe I'll be prepared.

If I anticipate the pain, maybe it won't hurt as much.

Except sometimes the thing we're predicting never happens.

Sometimes something entirely different happens.
And sometimes there simply isn't anything we can do yet.

Meanwhile, we're living through something that is actually happening right now while our brain is somewhere in an imagined future.