When we first welcomed our son into our home, the fear of him not breathing was overwhelming. I sacrificed sleep in an attempt to maintain my sanity, a concept that still eludes me. I would watch his chest rise and fall, counting each breath to ease my anxiety that he might be taken from me without warning. This fear consumed me, overshadowing logic and disregarding statistics.
Those were the early days.
Now, my worries have expanded beyond the scope of simple nighttime fears. My concerns have evolved into something more profound, with anxiety that feels all-encompassing and suffocating.
In essence, I find myself spending a significant portion of my time consumed by fear.
I worry that I am not enough—that I won’t be the mother my son needs at critical moments. I fear that I will lack the resolve to be the strong foundation he requires to someday stand independently.
The fear of making mistakes looms large. A careless word or misstep could lead him to seek therapy at an exorbitant rate, unpacking the painful moments of his upbringing. I worry about not being strong when he needs me and, paradoxically, about being too strong, which might hinder his ability to rely on himself later.
I fear that exhaustion will drive me to cut corners in his upbringing. I am concerned about explaining life’s complexities: How can I convey that love alone isn’t sufficient, or why tragedy can strike the best of us? How do I articulate the destructive forces of hatred masquerading as religious fervor or a devotion that leads to ruin?
I also grapple with the fear of not being present when he needs me most. With the world’s dangers infiltrating schools and public spaces, I dread the thought of him facing such threats without my support.
Balancing protection and independence is another source of anxiety: If I shield him too much, will he lack essential life skills? Conversely, if I am too hands-off, will he make irreversible mistakes? The challenge of working while parenting weighs on me too, as I worry that my professional commitments might lead to his neglect. On the flip side, not working could mean forfeiting opportunities for his future success.
I am concerned that my own biases might shape his worldview. Am I teaching him to be open-minded, or am I unintentionally imposing my beliefs? I fear that if I don’t guide him through my experiences, he may repeat my past mistakes and miss out on vital lessons.
The thought of him experiencing pain is daunting. Can I teach him resilience? Can I assure him that life improves over time? The shadows of my past haunt me, and I worry about how they might affect his future.
What if I don’t have the right words when he seeks comfort? I fret about saying too much and overwhelming him, and I fear that my love might become a burden rather than a support.
I dread the possibility that he will see my vulnerabilities and deem me weak, or worse, fail to see my true self, thus denying him the permission to be vulnerable himself.
In moments when the weight of my fears feels unbearable, I remind myself of those earlier days when my primary concern was his survival through the night. Looking into his curious eyes and seeing his toothless grin, I find solace in the fact that if I could endure those sleepless nights, I can face the uncertainties of his future.
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In summary, the journey of parenthood is fraught with fears that evolve over time. From the initial concerns of survival to the deeper anxieties about shaping a child’s future, the experience is complex and multifaceted. However, by confronting these fears and seeking knowledge, parents can navigate the challenges that lie ahead with greater confidence.