As a child raised in a Catholic school, part of my routine included confessing my misdeeds to a priest. I still vividly remember the anxiety I felt over the three check-marks I received for performing unauthorized cartwheels during gym class, which ended in a mandatory term paper on hockey—a sport I still find perplexing. The relief I felt after being told that I was forgiven for those joyous yet forbidden cartwheels was palpable.
There’s a unique catharsis that comes from confessing, whether it’s to a colleague, a close friend, or a partner. It allows us to unburden ourselves and, ideally, find some comfort in knowing we’re not alone in our struggles. Today, I have my own confession to make: I am a mother who worries—constantly.
I’m not talking about the usual parental fears like playing in the street or running with scissors; my worries are on another level. I find myself questioning whether I was exposed to harmful toxins during my pregnancy and if they could affect my daughter’s future. What if she doesn’t get into her dream college because of something as mundane as fluoride in our water? Sure, she might be excelling in her advanced classes now, but I can’t shake the fear that one misstep—like the time I drank caffeine—could derail everything.
While many dismiss the endless conflicting advice we receive about nutrition—Is it okay to eat eggs? Is bread back in favor? What about the health benefits of wine?—I, for one, am deeply anxious about making the wrong choices that could lead to my child developing an autoimmune condition simply because I didn’t pick the right type of lettuce.
Last spring, after my daughter’s basketball season, she was in remarkable shape. I voiced my concerns to my partner about whether she was too thin. “No, she looks amazing. She’s just been working out regularly. You’re worrying too much,” he reassured me. But still, I found myself purchasing a massive bag of Starburst to “add some meat” to her bones, only to later fret about the questionable ingredients in that candy.
Truth be told, I long to reduce my worrying. It’s not just parenting that occupies my mind; I’m also anxious about the stock market, global warming, political upheaval, and the well-being of aging relatives. Occasionally, I even spiral into worrying about outlandish things like Armageddon or conspiracy theories.
I’ve accumulated enough anxiety to potentially burden the whole human race, so if you’re a fellow worrier, take a breather—I’ve got your back. A part of me understands that I’ll never fully escape this tendency, yet I also recognize that letting go of some worry is essential for my well-being.
Throughout my life, I’ve explored various avenues to manage my anxiety: medication, yoga, meditation, prayer, inconsistent exercise routines, dietary changes, and journaling. However, I still find myself grappling with excessive worry. This anxiety can rob us of joy; I often look back on moments and realize that instead of enjoying a beautiful sunset at the beach, I was fretting over whether we’d applied enough sunscreen—and then second-guessing the ingredients in that sunscreen.
I find comfort in knowing that from the moment our children enter the world, filled with sleepless nights of checking their breathing, to the day they leave for college, we are all part of a vast community of mothers who share these worries. To all my fellow chronic worriers, please raise your hands and let me know I’m not alone in this. For now, I’ll unwind with a glass of wine—but first, I just need to worry about the sulfates in it.
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In summary, while worrying may be part of the motherhood experience, it’s vital to find ways to manage it and cherish the present moments with our children.
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