Bless Me Father, For I Got High

I have long suffered from anxiety.

Clinically treated, thoroughly managed, occasionally medicated — and yet. It still shows up. It still knocks. And the older I get, the louder it gets.

When my twins were two, my husband and I separated. And just like that, regular life stress got a roommate. Single mom stress moved in, unpacked its bags, and made itself very comfortable. The cocktail that used to take the edge off? Less practical now. The edge itself? Sharper than ever.

So I did what any modern, slightly overwhelmed woman does.

I let the internet fix it.

The bots knew, of course. They always know. Every algorithm known to mankind knew I had anxiety. Every platform served me ads promising calm, peace, balance, inner healing, hormone regulation, gut health, better sleep, spiritual enlightenment, and probably eternal salvation.

Brandy Greenwell, Middleburg, VA. PC Natalie Fox

Most of them I scrolled past.

But one day, the clickbait got me.

Does your life bring you stress?

I nodded.

Scrolled.

Nodded again.

And before common sense could intervene, I had clicked "Proceed to Purchase" on a magical gummy that promised to smooth out my anxiety. Like a fool chasing a miracle cure, I waited for the mail like it contained my salvation.

The package arrived from a website appropriately named Mood.

I appreciated the branding.

I didn't crack it open immediately. I'm not someone who likes to feel like a potted plant. Anxiety, stress, hard feelings — they've taught me things. Built me. Kept me honest. I don't mask them unless they're threatening to boil over.

And one Sunday morning, they did.

My twins were not yet three.

As I attempted to get them dressed for church, they transformed into what can only be described as feral woodland creatures. One was sprinting through the house with a church shoe. The other was fleeing in the opposite direction carrying a necktie. The dog was fully involved. Chaos reigned.

At some point, standing in the middle of the living room while sweating through my Sunday dress and questioning every decision that had led me to this moment, I ate one of the magical gummies.

Then I carried on.

I got the children dressed. Loaded. Buckled. Delivered to church before the bells rang.

Because I cannot be late to church.

Being late to church feels like showing up to God's house and having Him look over His glasses and say: Get it together, girl.

I dropped the twins in Sunday school. Found my usual spot midway up the left side of the sanctuary. Settled in.

A few minutes later, I noticed I felt... different.

Relaxed.

Tingly.

Grinny, in a way that felt slightly unnatural.

Then the organ began.

BOOOOOONNNNNNNNNGGGGGGG.

Brandy Greenwell, Middleburg VA. PC Natalie Fox

The sound rolled through the sanctuary. The choir processed. The acoustics bounced off stone walls. The voices stretched and echoed. And all of it moved like slow, gorgeous pinball.

And then I understood. The magical anxiety cure I had assumed was CBD-derived was not, in fact, CBD-derived.

It was THC.

I was high.

Very high.

In church.

With an hour still to go.

What followed was perhaps the most spiritually active service of my life.

There were moments when I genuinely wasn't sure whether the congregation was standing, kneeling, or sitting. I just followed the crowd and hoped for the best. I hoped that I wasn't rolling around on the floor looking for a woobie to cuddle. The organ sounded like it was physically moving through the room. The choir appeared to be performing in surround sound. The stained glass seemed aggressively stained-glassy.

And I prayed.

Oh, how I prayed.

Not for world peace. Not for guidance. Not for wisdom.

I prayed to come down. Immediately. I prayed that my face looked normal. I prayed that the woman beside me couldn't tell.

I've never been much of a cannabis enthusiast. No judgment for those who are — it's simply never been my thing. And yet there I sat, attempting to look normal while experiencing what can only be described as an out-of-body religious field trip.

Communion was particularly memorable.

The host seemed unusually pasty. The wine contained flavor notes I had somehow missed for decades — hints of currant, possibly oak, maybe enlightenment. Who knows. Worshipping while unintentionally stoned is an experience I can neither recommend nor adequately describe.

Coffee hour helped.

The munchies helped even more.

After a very, very long stay on the playground, I gradually re-entered Earth's atmosphere and returned from my unplanned orbit.

Later, I confessed to a member of the vestry. When I explained that I'd confused CBD with THC and spent an entire service trying not to look suspiciously delighted by the organ music, he laughed so hard he nearly cried. His only disappointment was that he hadn't known at the time.

Apparently he would have properly hazed me.

And honestly? I deserved it.

Here's what I learned.

Brandy Greenwell, Middleburg, VA. PC Natalie Fox

Not about gummies. Not about reading the fine print — though, yes, read the fine print.

I learned that anxiety will always find a new shape. Single motherhood. A Sunday morning with feral twins. A season of life that just won't let up. And there is no gummy, no shortcut, no clickbait cure that's going to outrun it.

We're all susceptible to believing there's a shortcut to feeling better. A gummy. A glass of wine. A self-help guru. A relationship. A purchase. A promise. Something that claims it can make the hard parts disappear.

But most of the time, the hard parts don't disappear.

What actually helps is showing up anyway. Getting the kids dressed. Making it to church. Sitting in your pew even when you're a mess — even when you are the mess.

We survive the hard parts one church service, one playground visit, one feral toddler at a time.

Sometimes grace finds you right where you are.

Even if you are absolutely, undeniably, historically high.

Amen.