Amid a swirl of costumes—soldiers, firefighters, fairies, and princesses—I find myself pressed against a cold tabletop, struggling to catch my breath. My vision blurs, and I twist the fabric of my Cinderella dress, yearning for a sense of security that eludes me. The adrenaline courses through my veins, and I feel trapped, unable to flee or confront the source of my distress.
My best friend, also dressed as Cinderella, tugs at my costume. “The Halloween parade is starting! Get up!” she insists. My head spins as I pull myself upright, acutely aware that he is out there, waiting for me after the festivities.
My biological father was not the protector I needed; with him, I felt endangered.
As the parade kicks off, I spot him in the crowd, and my stomach churns violently. Panic sets in, and I desperately search for my mother—my anchor. She sees the fear in my eyes and swiftly guides me away from the parade, leading me into a friend’s home. She holds my hair back as I retch into the toilet, the fear lingering long after there’s nothing left in my stomach but cold dread.
At just eight years old, this was far from my first panic attack. For years, I battled extreme separation anxiety from my mother and troubling stomach issues. To her credit, my mother tirelessly sought help—from pediatricians to child psychologists—trying to unravel the knot of anxiety that consumed me. Yet, deep down, I understood the chaos my anxiety could unleash on those I loved. I made a conscious choice to endure it alone.
Anxiety has shadowed my life, surfacing during moments meant for joy: college, my early teaching years, and especially after the births of my children.
When I woke at 3 a.m. after the birth of my third child, heart racing and thoughts spiraling, I recognized the familiar grip of anxiety tightening around me. I promptly scheduled an appointment with a therapist specializing in postpartum anxiety and depression. She would help me combat the irrational fears that plagued my mind—fears that my house would catch fire with my children inside, that my van would careen off a bridge, or even that a vampire might attack them. How could I protect them?
Therapy provided some relief, but it was medication that truly transformed my life. I hoped it would also shield my children from the anxiety that haunted me. My greatest fear—far greater than the typical worries of burglars or choking hazards—was that I had passed on the anxiety gene. I wished for my children to remain blissfully unaware of the affliction that had burdened me.
One day, as my three-year-old daughter, Lily, belted out “Winter Wonderland,” she innocently questioned, “Why are they dreaming by the fire, Mommy? They should go to bed. It’s not safe to sleep by the fire. They’ll get burned.” I chuckled and shared her delightful observation on social media, only to be met with a friend’s comment: “Like mother, like daughter.”
That phrase sent chills down my spine. What I had perceived as a simple, whimsical thought from my daughter now felt like a potential sign of her absorbing my fears. I began to pay closer attention to the small worries that crept into her mind.
“Why, Mommy? Why does he have to die?” Lily sobbed into my chest, heartbroken over a scene in a movie where Belle mourns the Beast. Hours later, she was still tangled in grief, despite knowing the Beast survives.
Meanwhile, my six-year-old son, Max, erupted in panic over losing his math homework. “I can’t go to school! I’ll get in trouble!” His fear mirrored my own, and I felt my heart race as I tried to quell his anxiety. This was my doing—his reaction to a minor mistake reflected the environment I had created.
He had witnessed my own worries, even before he was born. He had absorbed my anxieties while nestled inside me, feeling my tension over his health, and later, as I fretted over germs from visitors. I had inadvertently passed down my fears.
Now, I have a new mission: to heal them. I must equip my children with tools to recognize and manage their anxiety. Together, we talk, write, and draw our worries away. We reason with our anxious thoughts and explore solutions to our problems. For those worries we cannot control, we practice letting them go through visualization and breathing exercises. I believe I can navigate my own anxiety and, more importantly, model a healthier approach to my children. I am determined to provide them with a nurturing childhood, one that I wished I had.
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