Anxiety Is Like a Little Monster

Let’s talk about anxiety for a minute. Not just anxiety, but anxiety and motherhood.

I’ve had anxiety my whole life. I just didn’t realize what it really was until I had my children. It’s tangled up in so many other emotions like, guilt, grief, sorrow, anger, etc. It wraps around and is the reason for both my productivity and my procrastination. It echoes in my insecurities and thrives in sleepless nights.

Several years ago, I started working on processing what I can and cannot control. It’s become one of my many tools. I’m constantly reminding myself to let go of what I can’t control and focusing on what I can. 

But in the last couple of years, I’ve struggled to use that tool. I’ve come to realize that motherhood has a way of expanding the things I can’t control, and tricking me into wanting to control too much. My anxiety thrives in this dilemma. I often live in fear because the stakes feel so high.

My son has autism. I can’t control autism. I can’t make his brain work in a way that keeps him safe all the time. So, I try to control everything around him, but as he grows, like with any child, that becomes less and less possible. And all the while, he grows, and his wants and needs stretch beyond my reach.

My daughter has a more severe version of a blood disease. If I could give my left arm to make it go away, I would. And if I’m being honest, a truth I know I’ll be judged for, sometimes, I want to keep her in a bubble. Every bump, fall, or scratch shakes me to the core. I worry for her most when she’s away from me.

The future is where I feel the most out of control. The inevitable unknown. People tell me not to worry about it until it comes. But when you’re dealing with disabilities and medical needs, it doesn’t work that way. It’s a constant balancing act between preparing and not obsessing over it—and I’m no good at finding that balance.

I don’t tell my 9-year-old son that he may never drive the cars he loves, get married like they do on the shows he watches, or live on his own. I don’t tell my 6-year-old daughter that it may be too dangerous for her to play many sports, or that she might not be able to travel to places that can’t help her, or that having children could be too risky.

Instead, I hold these secrets for them. I tuck them into my heart, cloaked in anxiety. I know it’s no place to live, in the worry.

Anxiety is like a little monster, heavy and restless, curled up in the pit of my stomach. Some days, it doesn’t even bother me.Others, it creeps up slowly to my heart, clinging for dear life, making my head spin with worry. Then there are the times it’s triggered by something like a meltdown, a fall, teachers note, a bloody nose, etc. Then it jumps up, big and loud, settling in my mind for days.

I have my tools. I work on all the things I know that help, but even those change. It all ebbs and flows, just like everything in motherhood—the worry, the love, and the letting go. I try to remind myself—I’m doing the best I can, and that’s enough. Maybe then, I can keep the beast at bay.