I Spend My Days Overwhelmed with Worry

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When I first brought my little one home, fear was my constant companion. I remember lying awake, convinced he might stop breathing at any moment. I sacrificed sleep in the name of sanity, an irony I still can’t quite grasp. I’d find myself fixated on the rise and fall of his chest, counting every breath just to calm the nagging thought that he could be taken from me without notice or reason. That fear, relentless and raw, overshadowed any logic or comforting stats.

Ah, those early days.

Now, my worries have multiplied and evolved. I no longer just worry about whether he’ll survive the night. My concerns are broader, my anxiety deeper, and my fear has escalated to a level that sometimes feels suffocating.

In simple terms, I spend way too much time being afraid.

I fear I’m not enough for him. That I might not be the mother he needs when he needs me. What if I lack the strength or resolve to be the support he requires to stand on his own one day?

I’m terrified of making mistakes—one wrong word or misstep could lead him to costly therapy sessions, unpacking the struggles of his childhood. I worry I won’t be strong enough when he needs me most, or that I’ll be too strong and hinder his ability to rely on himself later in life.

I’m fearful of becoming so worn out that I’ll start cutting corners that matter. I dread the thought of failing to explain life’s complexities. How can I help him understand that love isn’t always enough, or why good people leave us too soon, or why we sometimes hurt those we care about? How do I explain hate disguised as faith or a love that can be destructive?

I’m scared I won’t be there when he needs me the most. With all the chaos in the world creeping into schools and public places, what if it reaches him and I’m not around to protect him?

I also worry that if I’m too protective, he might not gain the tools he needs to navigate life. Conversely, if I’m too hands-off, he might make decisions with irreversible consequences.

I’m anxious that working means I’m neglecting him, while not working could be seen as giving up on helping him have every opportunity. I’m concerned my own biases could shape his worldview. Am I being open-minded enough? Can I set aside my experiences, so he can form his own opinions?

I fear that if I don’t pass on my lessons, he might repeat my mistakes, but at the same time, I worry about shielding him from the failures that could give him invaluable wisdom.

It pains me to think of him feeling any kind of hurt. Can I teach him resilience? Can I prepare him for the reality that things can and do get better? I fear my past choices could haunt his future.

I’m worried I won’t know what to say when he turns to me for comfort. I might say too much and drown out his voice when it’s his thoughts that matter most.

I’m afraid of loving him too fiercely, that my affection might do more harm than good. I’m scared he’ll see through my facade and view me as weak, or, even worse, that he’ll never see the real me, leaving him without the freedom to feel vulnerable or human.

I’m terrified he might adopt my fears as his own.

And in those moments when the weight of anxiety feels unbearable, I remind myself of the nights when my biggest worry was whether he’d still be breathing come morning. I look at him, with his curious eyes and that adorable toothless grin, and I remember: If I survived those sleepless nights filled with fear, then surely, I can face the uncertainties of his future, right?

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Summary:

This piece reflects the author’s deep anxieties about parenting, illustrating the evolution of fears from the early days of motherhood to the broader concerns that accompany raising a child in a complex world. It touches on the struggle between wanting to protect a child while also preparing them for life’s challenges, emphasizing the emotional weight of parental worries.