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Confessions of a Worrisome Mother
Growing up in a Catholic school, I remember the ritual of confession all too well, where we’d confess our little transgressions to the priest. I still chuckle at how I stressed over those three checkmarks I received for sneaking in cartwheels during gym class (which led to the absurdity of writing a term paper on hockey—still a mystery to me). The relief I felt when I learned that God forgave me for those joyful but naughty cartwheels was unforgettable.
There’s something undeniably liberating about confessing—whether it’s to a friend, a colleague, or a partner. It’s a moment to release our burdens and, hopefully, find some understanding or reassurance. Today, however, I have my own confession to make: I am a chronic worrier.
And I don’t mean the typical worries that most moms have, like dodging cars in the street or worrying about sharp objects. No, I’m the expert of worry. For instance, I ponder whether I had too many toxins in my system while I was pregnant with my daughter and if that might have impacted her intelligence. What if excessive fluoride in the water prevents her from getting into her dream college? Sure, she’s thriving in advanced classes now, but what if all that crumbles because I had caffeine just one time?
While many brush off the mixed messages about diets—Are eggs still a no-no? Did I hear bread is back on the menu? Is wine actually good for me?—I’m the one who is truly anxious that I might mess it all up and somehow end up causing my child to develop an autoimmune disease due to my grocery choices.
Last spring, after basketball season, my 12-year-old was in fantastic shape. I asked my partner if she looked too thin, and he assured me she was perfectly healthy. But instead of calming down, I panicked and bought her a massive bag of Starburst, hoping to beef her up a bit (and then ended up worrying about what’s actually in those candies).
The reality is, I want to kick this incessant worrying habit. It’s not just about parenting; my mind races over the stock market, global warming, politics, and aging relatives. Sometimes, I even find myself spiraling into thoughts of Armageddon and conspiracy theories!
I know I have enough anxiety stored for the entire universe, so fellow worriers, you can take a breather—I’ve got this covered. Deep down, I realize I might never completely shed my worries, but I also know that it’s crucial to at least lighten the load.
Throughout my life, I’ve tried a plethora of remedies—medication, yoga, meditation, exercise (which I admit I haven’t been consistent with), dietary changes, and journaling—yet here I am, still a professional worrier. The truth is, if we don’t learn to manage our anxiety, it can rob us of joy. I often find myself looking back at moments I should’ve cherished, like sunset strolls on the beach, only to realize I was too busy stressing over whether we had enough sunscreen (and what was in that sunscreen).
It brings me a bit of comfort to know that, from the sleepless nights of checking if our newborns are breathing to the anxious hours spent worrying about their safety in college, countless other moms share this journey.
To all the fellow extreme worriers out there, raise your hands and let me know I’m not alone! For now, I’ll unwind with a glass of wine—but first, I have to worry about those sulfates.
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In summary, while I may be a worrywart, I know I’m not alone in my anxious thoughts. Balancing the chaos of parenting with life’s uncertainties can be overwhelming, but finding moments of joy is essential.