The moment I dashed off the airplane during a panic attack remains etched in my memory. Two hundred and sixty pairs of eyes watched me, including my young son, who, with a tremor in his voice, pleaded for me to stop crying. We were en route to a wedding, and earlier that morning, a crucial group project had unraveled unexpectedly. As someone who works remotely, I had mistakenly assumed I’d complete my tasks before boarding, believing I could utilize the in-flight Wi-Fi for any last-minute work.
But as I navigated through the security line, the ominous ding of my email alert felt like a siren call, signaling poor decisions. Anxiety twisted in my stomach as I guided my toddler onto the escalator, and a heavy case of “shoulds” overwhelmed me. I should have booked a later flight when our deadline shifted. I should have informed my bosses about my travel plans. I should have arrived at the airport earlier to finalize the files they needed urgently.
Then, the flight attendant announced that the in-flight Wi-Fi was down. With a project due at two o’clock—the same moment we were to land—my vision narrowed, and I felt trapped between two impossible choices: get off the plane to finish the project or remain seated and risk my job.
Anxiety has been my lifelong companion. I was a screamer from birth, causing my mother enough distress that the doctor remarked on it. In school, I grappled with what I called the “thought police,” feeling the need to confess any intrusive thoughts. By high school, I was a straight-A student who studied obsessively, while in college, I swung to the opposite extreme, often drinking until I lost consciousness. Years of therapy have since revealed that both extremes were merely attempts to cope with my anxiety.
The real journey to tackle my anxiety began nine years ago when I stopped drinking. During this time, I have benefited from two wonderful therapists, read numerous books, and incorporated meditation and exercise into my routine. But everything changed when I became a mother.
The birth of my beautiful baby, weighing in at 7 pounds 8 ounces, stripped me of the ability to manage my anxiety through perfectionism and control. I knew that my sleep—one of the pillars of my self-care—would be disrupted. I optimistically believed my son would sleep through the night by 12 weeks, blissfully unaware of the term “sleep regression.” The psychological toll of 18 months of broken sleep hit me harder than I anticipated. I would drop my son off at his mother’s day out program and sit in my car, crying from sheer exhaustion.
By the time my son turned two, his tantrums left me reeling. I often felt my own panic rising as he screamed on the floor. The coping strategies that had previously served me were failing. My son deserved a mother who could stay composed, but I also recognized that I deserved to feel better for my own sake. Everyone does.
After relocating across the country, finding a new therapist felt daunting. Sharing my story with multiple strangers while struggling with my mental health was exhausting. Eventually, I found a compassionate therapist close to my age. Our weekly sessions have allowed me to develop a broader toolkit for coping with anxiety.
In a moment of desperation, I left the plane with a flight attendant’s help. I managed to return home, finish my project, and immediately reached out to my therapist. “I abandoned my son. I LEFT HIM on an AIRPLANE,” I sobbed. “There’s no coming back from this.”
She responded, “Let’s rethink that. You left him with your loving and capable partner.” As if on cue, my phone dinged with a picture of my husband and son smiling at a children’s museum in our destination city. The image brought mixed feelings; I felt relief and guilt in equal measure. I should have been there.
Up until that day, I believed that my anxiety and zest for life were two sides of the same coin; feeling anxious meant I was truly experiencing life. But that belief was challenged in that moment. Today, my anxiety felt like a burden, until my therapist offered a crucial insight: “This isn’t the end of your story. This experience is just one of many moments you’ll share with your son. Often, how we recover from tough moments matters more than the moments themselves.”
Her words struck a chord. I realized this was a chance to talk to my son about emotions, unconditional love, and the truth that perfection isn’t a requirement for love.
My anxiety has made me a more empathetic parent, pushing me out of my comfort zone to learn new coping strategies. These lessons are essential to share with my son, who feels emotions deeply, just like I do. Our conversations now center around feelings versus actions. We emphasize unconditional love and acceptance, regardless of the hard days. We practice “do-overs” after rocky starts, and we cultivate empathy together. Through breathing exercises, we find our calm, and we share cuddles after challenging days.
Many families engage in these practices, but my personal experiences with mental health have added a depth that I wouldn’t have achieved without necessity. My son is learning that mistakes can be valuable, that there’s always a way forward, and that, as Brene Brown states, “Yes, I’m imperfect, but I am enough… Worthiness does not have prerequisites.”
To be honest, I never intended to learn or teach these lessons to my son as a means to navigate my mental health. I envisioned a smoother path—simple reminders with infrequent real-world applications. I wanted to be the calm and perfect mom, like those depicted in the idyllic opening scenes of a Disney film, before the plot takes a dark turn.
At times, I am that tranquil mother. Other times, I channel my inner Ursula. Yet afterward, we discuss self-care and move forward together, step by step.
I couldn’t catch a flight to reunite with my family until the next day. By then, I felt rested and relatively back to myself. My son was less concerned about my earlier departure than I had feared, excited instead to share his triumph of conquering a giant slide at the park. He had thrived during his one-on-one time with my husband, and now we came together again as a family—a beautifully imperfect unit, yet stronger for the experience.
In moments like these, I’m reminded that while I may grapple with anxiety, it also drives me to cultivate deeper connections and understanding within my family.
Summary
Anxiety has profoundly shaped my parenting experience, forcing me to learn and teach invaluable lessons about emotion, empathy, and imperfection. Through the challenges, I’ve discovered that my struggles can foster a deeper connection with my son, and help him understand the value of feelings and resilience.