A swirl of costumes fills my vision—superheroes, fairies, and princesses dance around me in a festive haze. I press my forehead against the cool surface of the table, struggling to regain my breath as my surroundings blur. My fingers clench the fabric of my Cinderella dress, my eyes squeezed shut in search of comfort. Adrenaline courses through me, rendering me frozen in a moment where I can neither flee nor fight.
My best friend, also dressed as Cinderella, tugs at my dress. “The Halloween parade is starting. Stand up!” she commands. My head spins as I pull myself up from the desk, acutely aware that he is out there, waiting for me after the festivities.
My biological father was far from the ideal figure; being near him felt unsafe.
As the parade begins, I catch sight of him in the crowd. My stomach twists painfully, my heart begins to race, and I can hardly breathe. I scan for my mother, my anchor of safety. Recognizing the fear in my eyes, she swiftly pulls me away from the throng, guiding me into the home of a classmate along the route. She reassures me, holding back my hair as I retch into the toilet, long after there’s nothing left but the icy grip of dread.
At just eight years old, this was not my first encounter with panic. These episodes, marked by extreme separation anxiety and ongoing stomach issues, would follow me for years. My mother’s unwavering love drove her to seek help, taking me to countless doctors and specialists. Yet, I held back from expressing my struggles, fearing the storm it would unleash on those I loved.
Anxiety and panic have shadowed me through significant life events—college, my early teaching years, and particularly after each of my children’s births.
When I jolted awake at 3 a.m. following the birth of my third child, my heart racing and thoughts spiraling out of control, I knew I needed help again. I scheduled an appointment with a therapist specializing in postpartum anxiety and depression. She was my guiding light against irrational fears: the dread that my home might catch fire with my children inside, or that my car could skid off a bridge. How could I protect them?
While therapy helped, medication ultimately saved me. My greatest fear, however, loomed larger than all others: the possibility of passing my anxiety onto my children. I wished fervently that they wouldn’t recognize the anxiety within me, believing that if they couldn’t see it, they wouldn’t adopt it.
One day, as my three-year-old daughter Emma sang “Winter Wonderland” at the top of her lungs, she paused to ask, “Why are they dreaming by the fire, Mommy? They should go to bed. It’s not safe!” I laughed and shared her adorable logic on social media, not grasping the implications until a friend commented, “Just like her mother.”
Chills ran down my spine. What I thought was innocent concern might signal that my fears had already seeped into her.
Emma wept as she watched Belle mourn the Beast, and my six-year-old son Alex panicked over misplaced math homework, convinced he’d get in trouble. My heart raced as I recognized this intense reaction to a minor setback—my influence was undeniable.
He had absorbed my anxieties, from the womb through the years of overprotection. I realized I had to break this cycle; I must teach my children how to manage their fears. We talk openly about stress, expressing our worries through drawing and writing. Together, we learn to handle anxiety with tools that have helped me—visualization and mindful breathing.
I believe I can coexist with my anxiety while modeling a healthier approach to my children’s lives. They deserve a childhood free from the burdens I carried.
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Summary
This piece delves into the author’s personal struggles with anxiety, tracing its roots from childhood to motherhood. It highlights the impact of inherited anxiety on her children and her commitment to fostering a healthier mindset for them. By sharing coping strategies, the author aims to break the cycle of anxiety and create a nurturing environment for her family.