As a child, I attended Catholic school, where regular visits to confession were a rite of passage. I still remember the agony I felt over those three dreaded check marks I received for my unauthorized cartwheels during gym class (which led to writing a term paper on hockey—still a mystery to me). The relief I felt when absolved of my cartwheeling sins was palpable.
There’s something undeniably therapeutic about confessing—whether it’s to a colleague, a friend, or a partner. It’s an opportunity to share a weight we carry and perhaps gain some reassurance that we’re not alone in our struggles.
Today, I must confess: I am a master worrier of a mother.
And I’m not talking about the typical concerns—like kids playing near the street or the dangers of sharp objects. My worries are next level. I find myself fretting over whether I might have been exposed to toxins during my pregnancy and how that could affect my daughter’s future intelligence. What if she doesn’t get into her dream college because of that time I drank caffeine? Sure, she’s excelling in advanced classes now, but what if it all comes crashing down because I had too much fluoride in the water?
While many might chuckle at the endless stream of contradictory dietary advice (Are eggs back on the list? Did I hear that bread is okay again? Is wine actually beneficial?), I’m the one who obsesses over every detail, scared that my missteps might lead to my child developing an autoimmune disease due to my lettuce choices.
Last spring, after basketball season, my 12-year-old was in peak condition. I asked my partner if she looked too thin, and he reassured me, “No, she looks great! She’s just been working out like a champ.” But instead of taking his word for it, I panicked and bought her a massive bag of Starburst to add some “meat” to her bones—only to start worrying about the scary ingredients in those candies later!
The truth is, I long to let go of my worries. But it’s not just parenting that occupies my mind; I also find myself anxious about the stock market, global warming, politics, and the well-being of aging parents. On occasion, I even spiral into thoughts about the end of the world and conspiracy theories (thanks, Internet!).
I probably have enough worries saved up to cover an entire nation, so if you’re also a chronic worrier, take a breath—I’ve got your back.
Deep down, I know I may never fully eliminate my worries, but I recognize that learning to manage them is essential for my happiness. It’s disheartening to realize that I often miss out on enjoying life’s moments because I’m too busy fretting. For instance, there was that one time I spent a beautiful sunset at the beach worrying about whether we’d used enough sunscreen (and, of course, what was actually in that sunscreen).
It brings me some comfort to remember that from the moment our children are born (when we’re wide awake at night, checking if they’re still breathing) to the day they head off to college (when we’re still up, pacing and wondering if they’re safe), countless other mothers share the same worries.
So, to all my fellow extreme worriers, please raise your hands and let me know I’m not alone! Meanwhile, I’ll attempt to unwind with a glass of wine—although now I have to worry about sulfates.
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Summary:
In this humorous and relatable blog post, Emily Thompson shares her journey as a mother plagued by worry. From concerns about her daughter’s health to the overwhelming flood of parenting anxieties, she candidly addresses the challenges of managing her fears while also seeking support from fellow mothers. With a light-hearted tone, she invites other worry-prone parents to join her in embracing the chaos of motherhood.