In a swirl of costumes—soldiers, firefighters, astronauts, and even fairies—I find myself overwhelmed, pressing my face against the cool Formica surface, struggling to catch my breath. My vision blurs as I clutch the fabric of my Cinderella skirt, squeezing my eyes shut, desperately seeking comfort and safety from my own body. Adrenaline courses through me, rendering me paralyzed, unable to flee or confront my fears.
My best friend, also dressed as Cinderella, tugs at my costume urgently. “The Halloween parade is starting. Get up!” she insists. As I stumble off the desk, my mind races, fixating on the presence of my biological father in the crowd. The memories of feeling unsafe with him creep back.
As the parade commences, I spot him among the spectators, and a wave of nausea washes over me. My heart pounds, and I gasp for air, scanning the crowd for my mother, my anchor. Recognizing my distress, she pulls me away from the festivities, guiding me into a classmate’s house. She comforts me as I retch into the toilet, my body heaving long after my stomach is empty, filled only with paralyzing fear.
At just eight years old, I was already familiar with panic attacks. These episodes, along with my intense separation anxiety and troubling stomach issues, plagued me for years. My mother’s unwavering love led us to countless pediatricians, gastroenterologists, and child psychologists in search of solutions. Yet, I was aware of the chaos I would unleash upon my family if I revealed the depths of my anxiety, so I chose to endure it alone.
Anxiety haunted me during pivotal moments in my life—college, my early teaching years, and particularly after each of my children’s births. When I woke in a panic at 3 a.m. on the night my third child was born, my heart racing and thoughts spiraling, I knew I had to seek help again. I scheduled an appointment with a therapist specializing in postpartum anxiety and depression, hoping she could help me navigate the irrational fears consuming me: my house burning down with my children inside, my van careening off a bridge, or even a vampire attacking them. How could I ensure their safety?
While therapy offered some relief, medication ultimately brought me back to a semblance of normalcy. Yet, a persistent fear lingered: had I inadvertently passed my anxiety onto my children? I hoped that shielding them from visible signs of my struggles would spare them from inheriting this burden.
During the holiday season, our family embraced the song “Winter Wonderland.” My three-year-old daughter, who believes she is the next Kelly Clarkson, sang enthusiastically. After one line, she remarked, “Why are they dreaming by the fire, Mommy? They should go to bed. It’s not safe to sleep by the fire. They’ll get burned.” I found her logic amusing and shared it on social media, only to be met with a friend’s comment: “Like mother, like daughter.” Suddenly, I felt a chill; what I had perceived as innocent childhood reasoning could be a sign that my anxiety had begun to seep into her psyche.
My daughter’s empathy was evident when she cried uncontrollably over a scene in a movie, grieving for a character despite knowing it was fictional. Meanwhile, my six-year-old son panicked over losing his math homework, convinced he would be punished. I felt my heart race with his, realizing that his intense reaction mirrored my own tendencies. Despite my attempts to hide my anxiety, he had absorbed it, both through genetics and my overprotective nature.
Now, my mission is clear: I must help them unlearn the patterns of worry that I inadvertently instilled. We engage in conversations about stress, write our fears down, and draw them out. We practice reasoning with our anxious minds, brainstorming solutions to problems together. For worries that are beyond our control, we work on releasing them through visualization and breathing exercises. I strive to live with my anxiety in a healthier way, modeling resilience for my children. My goal is to provide them with a childhood that is filled with more joy and less worry than my own.
This article was originally published on Jan. 13, 2013. If you’re interested in more helpful resources, check out this post about at-home insemination kits or learn about pregnancy insights from Disney Baby’s fetal size comparisons. For those exploring infertility, the CDC offers excellent information on the topic.
In summary, anxiety can indeed be a hereditary trait, but with intention and the right strategies, we can break the cycle and foster a healthier, happier environment for our children.