There’s a whole lot of guilt that can creep into a person’s heart, isn’t there? Guilt is like that awkward friend who shows up uninvited, curling up in the corner but always finding a way to remind you it’s there. It’s a tough emotion, one that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. As a mother, I often find myself wrestling with guilt, a feeling just as prevalent as those moments of overwhelming love and the occasional bursts of frustration.
Lately, I’ve been feeling particularly weighed down by it. My brilliant, fiercely independent daughter, Lily, seems to be tiptoeing along the edge of anxiety. I watch as she deals with stomachaches, bites her fingers, and struggles through sleepless nights, her heart racing with worry. Despite my efforts to be there for her, the thoughts that plague me are “This is all my fault” and “I’m only adding fuel to the fire.”
I can practically hear you shaking your head at me, saying, “It’s not your fault!” If we were catching up over coffee, you’d remind me that these issues stem from the brain, not from poor parenting. And you’d be partially right. I absolutely believe that anxiety can be a genetic trait, passed down from mother to daughter. It’s my fault, without being my fault.
Maybe this is a conversation Lily and I can have: the difference between belief and worry, the reality versus the anxiety that grips us. But even with a predisposition to anxiety, I can’t help but think that various experiences have stoked the flames of her anxiety instead of dousing them. I’ve contributed to this fire, inadvertently squeezing the bellows of her worries with my own hands.
These are the thoughts that echo in my mind: I had to wean her before she was ready. I was unexpectedly hospitalized for five weeks after a doctor’s visit, leaving her to navigate her world without me. Her baby brother arrived far too early, demanding more care and attention than I could provide to four kids combined. Whether I was caring for him out of town or lost in my own worries while he was nearby, I can’t shake the feeling that these moments have left a mark.
Could I have changed those circumstances? Not really. Should I feel guilty about them? No. But do I wonder if they’ve shaped her in a lasting way? Absolutely.
Perhaps every parent grapples with similar guilt, especially when it comes to younger or middle children—our situation just feels more intense. There never seems to be enough time for everyone. Is this where we learn about sacrifice and empathy?
Watching Lily, a fearless six-year-old in many ways but trembling in others, I want to shower her with affirmations of her intelligence and strength. Yet, I can’t always be there when she needs to hear those whispers the most. I’m not there during her reading time or sitting across from her during spelling lessons.
I make up for this with tight hugs, frozen blueberries, and a commitment to dyslexia testing while repeating how much I love her. But I constantly worry that her inner voice drowns out my reassurance. I fear she interprets my love as conditional, marked with an asterisk.
So here I am on this gloomy Monday, having signed paperwork, agreed to testing, and joined forces with teachers and administrators to create a safety net of caring adults for Lily. We are determined to show her she is more than enough—smart, brave, and capable of conquering the world. Yet, I still fret that she might slip through the cracks, having learned to be self-sufficient to the point of resisting help.
These fears weigh heavily on me, but they do not define my beliefs. I don’t believe she will slip away from us. I have faith that she will grow up feeling empowered, confident, and ready to face the world without being overshadowed by anxiety. Perhaps we can discuss the difference between belief and worry, the fine line between truth and anxiety. Our past experiences shape us, but our future holds endless possibilities.
A stomachache on a school day doesn’t mean she isn’t as smart as a rocket scientist. I want her to know that my love for her is unconditional, without any hidden asterisks. I might feel exasperated at times, I might not have all the answers, and the answers I do have might not align with her expectations. But I will always seek answers and engage in dialogue with her as we navigate this journey together.
I’ll work on keeping guilt from creeping into my thoughts and try to make my positive affirmations echo louder than the whispers of self-doubt that surround her. She needs to understand that the world is ripe for the taking, and whoever controls the bellows can direct the flames of their future.
Together, we will work the bellows—not to fuel anxiety but to fan our dreams and aspirations, like superheroes racing toward a brighter tomorrow.
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In summary, as a mother, I grapple with guilt regarding my daughter’s anxiety. While I acknowledge my fears and guilt, I also believe in her strength and resilience. Together, we will navigate her journey, fostering her confidence and learning to separate belief from worry.