Yesterday felt like an ordinary day. I overslept, which is becoming a routine. From that moment on, the day began to spiral, as it usually does, sweeping me along for the ride. It wasn’t until I dropped my son off at daycare that I finally caught my breath. As I walked down the stone path to the parking lot, the chaos subsided enough for me to think instead of merely react.
That’s when the familiar wave of anxiety washed over me. Before I even reached my car, my mind started racing. Did I tell him I love him? Oh no, what if I forgot? He kissed me goodbye, but did I say those important words? What kind of mother am I?
In my heart, I know my child feels my love. The rational part of my brain insists this, yet those nagging thoughts persist. I shouldn’t let them overwhelm me. I shouldn’t let my insecurities manifest into unfounded worries. But here I am, unable to stop the cycle.
Once I’m in the car, I dial my husband, feeling weighed down. “I think I forgot to tell him I love him,” I confess. He reassures me with the words I needed to hear: “He knows you love him.” Finally, I manage to let go of that burden—at least until the next time.
I’m a worrywart mom, an anxious mom, and I truly dislike it.
My concerns range from the plausible to the obsessive and even to the absurd. I fret about speaking too harshly to my son, believing it might be a memory that haunts him. I worry whether he ate enough. I stress over the times I was busy doing chores, thinking he might have felt neglected. What if I put him in time-out when all he really needed was a hug?
Before bed, I check on my son sleeping peacefully in his crib multiple times. Did I see his breathing steady? Were his hands and feet safely away from the bars? Was his face too close to the pillow?
My mind races with fears about what could happen throughout the day, despite having no real reason to expect danger. What if he slips from my grip and runs into traffic? I always hold his hand tightly. What if he tumbles from the slide and gets hurt? He’s strong at 2, and broken bones heal, but the thoughts are relentless. What if I didn’t tell him I love him, and that was our last goodbye? I know I shouldn’t dwell on these thoughts, but I do, and I despise it.
As an anxious mom, I’m engaged in a daily battle within my mind. The energy I could use to enjoy time with my child is instead consumed by trying to quell the worries that threaten to overtake me. It’s not just unhealthy; it’s utterly exhausting. My thoughts are fixated on what I should have done, what mistakes I made, and what I need to do better next time. I replay conversations and events, obsessing over whether I did or said the wrong thing. I cling to my missteps, long after my son has forgotten them.
I know it sounds irrational to those who aren’t plagued by worry. Sometimes, I even question my sanity.
It seems foolish, doesn’t it? I worry because I’m worrying too much! I wish I could let the day unfold without overanalyzing it. If only I could flip a switch to quiet my thoughts, or at least dial them down to a manageable level. But I’m still seeking that balance—for my son’s sake.
I don’t want him to inherit my anxiety. There will come a time when he’ll notice the worry etched on my face, and I fear he might think there’s something to be afraid of. I never want him to become a worrier like me. He deserves a warrior mom rather than the worrywart he has now. That’s the goal I’m striving for, even if I haven’t reached it yet. For now, he has to make do with me, the anxious mom. Despite my worries, I cherish the mother I’ve become through him, and he knows this.
Even if I forget to say those three little words, he knows I love him.
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Summary
This article explores the struggles of a worried mother who longs to be more resilient. She shares her daily battles with anxiety and the fears that consume her as she navigates parenthood. Despite her worries, she acknowledges her love for her son and her commitment to becoming a stronger, more confident mom.
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