I used to be the kind of person who chased adrenaline. The thrill of jumping off bridges—yes, I was that daredevil! I embraced new adventures with open arms, unafraid of the unknown. But everything shifted once my children arrived.
The transformation wasn’t instantaneous. In the early days of my twins’ lives, I sought thrills wherever I could. I relished driving alone to my part-time college classes, hitting the accelerator as I crossed a bridge near our home—just enough to feel that familiar rush of excitement. However, by the time my third child turned six months, even the thought of stepping on an airplane sent my heart racing. I found myself anxious about everything, from passing buses to minor health issues to routine beach outings. Even carnival rides became too daunting.
With every day, my fear intensified—I began to panic at the mere thought of any situation that could potentially endanger my life or that of my children. And, of course, little ones have a knack for amplifying these worries. I’ll never forget the evening when I was preparing dinner, and my neighbor called to inform me that my five-year-old had unlocked our third-floor windows, helping my two-year-old dangle toys and trash out, sending them plummeting to the ground below.
I try to convince myself that nothing has truly changed, but I know that’s not accurate. Motherhood has reshaped my perspective, making my existence feel vital in a way I never considered before. Before kids, my life revolved around me. Now, the thought of my death looms as an event that would drastically alter my children’s futures. This newfound realization of being irreplaceable is both profound and frightening. The pressure can be overwhelming, and I find myself needing extra doses of relaxation aids just to cope with a simple flight rather than enjoying the view as we soar above the ground.
Once an adrenaline junkie, I’ve now become a walking bundle of nerves, habitually counting heads whenever we’re out (one, two, three… repeat). It sounds absurd, I know. I’m aware that much of this anxiety is self-imposed. But that’s the effect motherhood has on you.
I hold onto the hope that as my children grow older, my obsessive fear of inadvertently causing harm to them will dissipate. I dream of being the mom who rides roller coasters with her teenagers or embarks on adventures to places like Machu Picchu once they head off to college. I want to embrace the freedom that comes with raising kids while they explore independence.
Yet, unless this anxious side of me fades away like my children’s baby fat, I might always be the mom meticulously checking expiration dates, ensuring all the windows are locked, and watching the ferris wheel from solid ground. I may end up spending years fretting over minor issues instead of truly living.
Fifteen years from now, I’ll know for sure. If I find myself spontaneously booking a month-long trip to Prague, diving out of a perfectly good airplane, or building a cob house with my bare hands, it will signal that I’ve finally outgrown my maternal worries. Until that day arrives, I’ll keep biting my nails down to the quick and adding another deadbolt to the door.
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Summary
Motherhood has shifted my perspective drastically from being an adventurous spirit to a cautious, worry-prone individual. The responsibilities of parenthood have introduced an overwhelming sense of fear regarding my own well-being and that of my children. Despite this anxiety, I hope to regain my adventurous spirit as my children grow older, finding a balance between caution and living life to the fullest.