I once thrived on adventure and excitement. I was the type of person who would leap into unknown waters, quite literally—I had a penchant for bridge diving! Exploring new places and meeting unfamiliar faces was thrilling and without apprehension.
However, everything shifted when my children entered my life. This transformation didn’t occur overnight. In the early days of raising my twins, I sought out small thrills wherever I could find them. Three times a week, I drove solo to my part-time college classes, and during those drives, I would accelerate over the bridge leading home—just enough to feel that rush of adrenaline as my stomach dropped slightly.
Fast forward to when my youngest was just six months old; I found myself paralyzed by fear at the thought of stepping onto an airplane. A simple walk along the curb became a source of anxiety, especially when large buses passed by. My worries spiraled into an obsession with spoiled food, minor health concerns, and even trips to the beach. The idea of going on carnival rides was now overwhelming.
If there was even the slightest chance that my children or I could find ourselves in harm’s way, I began to panic. The constant barrage of parenting challenges only deepened my anxiety. I vividly recall a night when I was preparing dinner, and my neighbor called to inform me that my five-year-old had discovered how to unlock our third-floor windows, encouraging my toddler to dangle toys and trash out to the ground below.
I try to convince myself that nothing has fundamentally changed, but that’s far from the truth. Motherhood has reshaped my identity and given my life a sense of importance I had never experienced before. Before kids, I lived purely for myself. Now, the thought of my own demise feels catastrophic, a disaster that would forever alter my children’s futures. The realization that I am irreplaceable has become an overwhelming weight on my shoulders. Sometimes, the stakes feel too high for my mind to process; I find myself needing double doses of Xanax just to get through a short flight, rather than enjoying the view as we ascend.
Once a thrill-seeker, I now find myself caught in a web of neuroses, constantly counting whenever I’m out—one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three children. I know it’s irrational. I recognize that much of this anxiety is self-inflicted. Yet, motherhood brings about these unexpected changes.
I hold on to the hope that one day, as my children grow older, my irrational fears about inadvertently ruining their lives will subside. I dream of being the mom who rides roller coasters with her teenagers, who explores Machu Picchu once they’ve settled into college. I long to embrace the adventurous spirit that led me to have kids young and to experience thrilling activities when they’re off on their own.
But unless this fearful part of me diminishes like my children’s baby fat, I may never become that mom. I might always be the woman who meticulously checks expiration dates on milk, secures locks on windows, and watches the ferris wheel from a distance. I could spend years fretting over trivial matters instead of savoring life to its fullest.
In fifteen years, I’ll have clarity. If I find myself spontaneously booking a month-long trip to Prague without knowing a word of Czech, or daring to jump out of a perfectly functional airplane, or even constructing a cob house by hand, I’ll know I’ve outgrown my maternal anxieties. Until then, I’ll continue biting my nails and adding another deadbolt to the front door.
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Summary
Motherhood has profoundly altered the author’s adventurous spirit, replacing thrill-seeking with anxiety and hyper-vigilance for her children’s safety. She reflects on the transformation from carefree to cautious, hoping that as her children mature, she can reclaim her former self and embrace life more boldly.