A Child’s Anxiety Reflects a Mother’s, Too

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There’s an endless list of things that can fill a person with guilt, and “guilt” is such a fitting word. It curls in on itself, hiding its face, but that little tail always sticks out, never letting it disappear completely. Guilt. It’s a great word, but not a great feeling.

As a mom, I often find myself swimming in this squishy emotion alongside the overwhelming love and occasional frustration I feel. Lately, I’ve been feeling particularly burdened, and it’s time for a little honesty. I’ve watched my bright, incredibly clever daughter dance around the edges of anxiety. From tummy aches to biting her fingers, sleepless nights to racing heartbeats, I see it all unfold. I try to help her, but two thoughts keep looping in my head: “It’s all my fault” and “I’m just throwing water on a growing fire.”

I can almost hear you shaking your head at me. “It’s not your fault,” you’d say if we were grabbing coffee together. “These things are brain-related; they aren’t about blame.” And you’d be somewhat right; I believe that an anxious brain is often hardwired that way. My daughter inherited my tendency to worry. So, while it’s not my fault, it kind of is.

Maybe we can explore the difference between belief and worry together: the truth versus the anxiety, faith versus the fear that grips us tightly.

But even with a brain that leans toward anxiety, I can’t help but think that many things have fueled this fire rather than quelling it. The circumstances of our lives have acted like bellows, inflating her fears, and I’ve contributed to that by squeezing those bellows with my own hands.

This is the litany playing on repeat in my mind: I had to wean her before she was ready. I was hospitalized unexpectedly for five weeks, leaving her behind. Her younger brother was born way too early, needing more attention than I could provide. There were endless weeks spent caring for him while I worried, often losing myself in my own anxiety.

Could I have changed any of these situations? No. Can anyone be blamed for things like this? No. Should I move on? Yes. Do I wonder about their long-term effects? Absolutely.

Perhaps this is how every parent feels when navigating the complexities of raising a younger or middle child, but our situation just seems to have a few more exclamation points along the way. There’s never enough time for everyone, and that’s how sacrifice and empathy are learned, right?

Now I watch my daughter, who is six and, in some ways, incredibly brave, yet in others, she quakes with fear. I want to shower her with affirmations of her strength and intelligence. Yet, I can’t always be there when she needs those words the most. I’m not sitting with her during reading time or across from her during spelling lessons.

I compensate by hugging her tightly, feeding her frozen blueberries, agreeing to testing for learning challenges, and reminding her how much I love her. But I worry that my words might be drowned out by the doubts in her head. I fear she hears my “I love you” with an asterisk, indicating something more.

So, on this gray Monday, with agreements signed and meetings held, I see teachers and parents forming a united front to ensure she knows she is enough. We’re all linked together, ready to protect her from feeling inadequate. Yet, I still worry she might slip through those connections. After all, she’s been so self-reliant that she might prefer to face her struggles alone rather than accept help.

But these are just my fears, not my convictions. I don’t believe she’ll slip away from us. I don’t believe she’ll grow up feeling incapable or lost in anxiety. Those are my worries, not my beliefs. Maybe this is a conversation we can have: the difference between belief and worry, truth versus anxiety. Our past experiences shape us, but they don’t define our futures. A morning stomachache from reading difficulties doesn’t mean you’re not as smart as a rocket scientist.

I hope she understands that my love comes without any hidden conditions. I’ll always be in her corner. I might feel exasperated sometimes and may not have all the answers she wants, but I’ll always be searching for them. We’re learning together.

I’ll do my best to keep guilt from whispering in my ear and to ensure my voice of encouragement drowns out the self-doubt that plagues her. She needs to know the world is hers for the taking. She needs to learn that whoever controls the bellows can manage the flames.

So, we’ll work together to squeeze those bellows—not to fuel anxiety but to spread our wings like superheroes, charging forward, not away, through the warm breeze of life.

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In summary, parenting is a continuous journey of love, worry, and growth. As we navigate these challenges, it’s essential to find balance, support each other, and remember that we are all in this together.