For most of my life, I lived with a quiet but constant sense that it was my responsibility to be ready—for whatever might come.

That responsibility wasn’t limited to one area. It touched everything. It was spiritual, emotional, and practical all at once. I was trying to be obedient, to follow the teachings I believed came from God, to raise my children the right way, to strengthen my family, and to prepare for a future I had been taught was not only uncertain, but inevitably difficult.

In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, preparedness isn’t just about having extra supplies. It’s part of a much larger framework of obedience, vigilance, and faithfulness. We were taught to listen to prophets, to recognize the signs of the times, and to take seriously the idea that the world would one day be in upheaval. Preparation wasn’t framed as optional. It was something faithful members did.

Food storage was one part of that, but it was only one part. There were also expectations around self-reliance, developing skills, strengthening the home, teaching your children, and constantly evaluating whether you were doing enough to be ready—spiritually and temporally—for what was coming.

These teachings were not abstract or occasional—they were reinforced repeatedly and with a sense of urgency. Church leaders spoke in ways that made preparation feel essential, not optional. Ezra Taft Benson taught that “the revelation to produce and store food may be as essential to our temporal welfare today as boarding the ark was to the people in the days of Noah” (Ensign, Jan. 1974). That kind of comparison doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. It frames preparation not simply as wisdom, but as survival.

At the same time, we were taught to recognize the signs that these events were approaching. Elder Dallin H. Oaks taught that the signs of the Second Coming were “increasing in frequency and intensity,” describing an “ominous” pattern of natural disasters (General Conference, Apr. 2004). When you hear that kind of language repeatedly—when you are taught not only that you must prepare, but that the signs are already happening—it doesn’t feel distant or theoretical. It feels immediate.

That urgency was paired with personal responsibility. President Spencer W. Kimball taught that “the Lord will not translate one’s good hopes and desires and intentions into works. Each of us must do that for himself” (The Miracle of Forgiveness, 1969, p. 8). And leaders like Elder L. Tom Perry taught not only that preparation was necessary, but what that preparation should look like—storing food, obtaining clothing, building savings, and planning for emergencies. At the center of it all was a promise repeated often: “If ye are prepared ye shall not fear” (Doctrine and Covenants 38:30; see also L. Tom Perry, General Conference, Oct. 1995).

I believed that.

But what I didn’t realize at the time was that I was prepared… and I still felt the weight of it.

That belief shaped my life in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. I stored food—boxes and boxes of it. I collected fabric, thinking I would need to make clothing for my family. I even saved patterns, planning ahead for sizes my children hadn’t grown into yet or had already outgrown, because I believed I could barter with others if needed. At the time, none of this felt extreme. It felt responsible. It felt like I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do as a mother and as a faithful member of the church.

What I couldn’t see then was the pressure that lived underneath all of it. I constantly felt like I wasn’t doing enough. No matter how much I stored or how much effort I put in, there was always more I could be doing—more food storage, more rotation, more skills, more gardening, more reading, more teaching my children. The expectation wasn’t just to be prepared; it was to be continually improving, continually doing more, continually proving that I was obedient.

Because of that, there was never a point where I felt finished. There was no moment where I could say, “This is enough.” When you believe that a catastrophic future is not just possible but inevitable, it becomes almost impossible to feel secure in what you’ve done. There is always the question of whether you’ve prepared well enough, and the answer never quite feels like yes.

At the time, I wouldn’t have described this as fear. I felt in control. I felt responsible. But looking back now, I can see that my mind was always working in the background—always scanning, always thinking ahead, always asking what else I should be doing. It wasn’t panic, but it was a constant state of vigilance. And that kind of vigilance, even when it feels productive, is exhausting.

The impact of that didn’t fully hit me until much later. About a year ago, I cleaned out my pantry and had to throw away large amounts of food storage that I had carefully built over time. Standing there, looking at it, I felt more than frustration. It felt wasteful. I could see the money that had been spent, the time and effort that had gone into building it, and now it was all being thrown away. I wasn’t thinking about obedience or whether I had done it “right.” I was thinking about how much had been invested into something that was never actually needed. It felt like a loss—of resources, of time, and of energy that could have been used differently.

Now I see it differently. It was the natural result of preparing for a future that never came. Letting go of that food wasn’t just a practical task; it made me pause and take a closer look at what that mindset had required of me over the years—the money, the time, and the constant attention it demanded. What I once believed was simply being responsible, I can now see came with a cost I didn’t fully understand at the time.

What I’m starting to understand now is that there is a difference between preparedness rooted in fear and preparedness rooted in peace. When preparedness is rooted in fear, it is driven by the belief that something bad is coming and that it is your responsibility to anticipate and prevent it. When it is rooted in peace, it is grounded in trust—trust that whatever comes, you will be able to respond.

Those two approaches feel very different.

One keeps you in a constant cycle of doing more, storing more, and wondering if it is enough. The other allows you to be present, to live in the life you actually have, and to trust your ability to handle what comes without trying to control every possible outcome.

I’m not against being prepared, but I no longer believe that my worth or my ability to care for my family is measured by how well I can anticipate worst-case scenarios. I don’t believe it is my responsibility to prepare for the collapse of the world, and I don’t believe safety comes from how much I can store.

Last week, I cleaned out a closet full of fabric and food storage, and it was in that process that this realization came back to me. As I went through each box, I could feel those old thoughts and expectations surface again—the sense that I needed to be prepared, that it was my responsibility to be ready for whatever might come. I could remember the urgency I once felt, the pressure to take care of my family in that way, to make sure I had done enough.

But this time, something felt different. That sense of urgency wasn’t there anymore. The desperation I once carried—the weight of feeling like it all depended on me—had quieted.

I am still keeping what is meaningful and what I will actually use—things like the flannel I cut for blankets and a piece of soft pink fabric to make dresses for my granddaughters. But those choices feel different now. They are not driven by fear or obligation. They are grounded in love, connection, and the life I am actually living.

The rest, I am letting it go. Not because it was wrong to have it, and not because that version of me was wrong. She was doing the best she could with what she believed at the time. But I no longer need to carry the weight that came with those beliefs.

For years, I lived under the burden of being prepared. I thought it was responsibility. I thought it was faithfulness. I didn’t recognize how much it was asking me to carry.

Now, I am learning what it feels like to set that weight down.

And for the first time, that feels like peace.