Trust your instincts. It’s the go-to advice for parenting. Our instincts evolve into a mother’s intuition. When uncertainty strikes, when we feel anxious about the future, or sense something is off, we’re told to simply listen to our instincts.
I understand and respect this notion. As parents, we have an intimate understanding of our children that no one else possesses. We are the first to notice when something seems off. The emotions our children might bottle up elsewhere often surface at home—the one place where they feel secure and loved. Generally, we know when to be concerned, when to adopt a wait-and-see attitude, and when we might be overreacting and need to move on.
However, this perspective shifts dramatically if you’re a mom dealing with anxiety, like me.
For those of us who face anxiety, especially if it manifests in a way similar to mine, the phrase “trust your instincts” can feel overwhelmingly heavy. Why? Because my instincts are constantly screaming that something is wrong—often in a catastrophic way. I’m perpetually on edge, consumed with worry. My children, being the most precious part of my life, become the focal point of my anxiety.
Some days are easier than others, but the reality is this: If I relied solely on trusting my instincts, I’d practically be a regular at the emergency room. I’d be on high alert every single day, preventing my husband, brother, or close friends from spending time with my kids. I’d live in constant fear that everyone I care about was teetering on the brink of disaster.
I can read a headline about a rare brain-eating amoeba, and suddenly, I’m awake all night, convinced my child with a simple cold might be the next victim. Symptoms I chalk up to a harmless virus morph into signs of something much worse. I won’t sleep, obsessively check on them, or drag them into my bed. I’m not religious, yet I find myself praying to the universe for their safety.
This might leave many scratching their heads in confusion. It seems irrational, I know. But understanding this doesn’t alleviate my anxiety—it’s a relentless cycle. When I see warnings about small children eating popcorn, I become a nervous wreck, especially if I’ve just allowed my toddler to indulge. I spiral into thoughts of unlikely, yet terrifying, outcomes.
The anxiety doesn’t stop there. I dread them being in a car without me. While I know I can’t prevent every tragedy, at least I can ensure that I’m not speeding or distracted, and that they’re safely strapped in. Even when my husband takes them out, I feel the need to doubt his competence, despite knowing he’s a wonderful father. My mind races with irrational fears, even though I know he cares for our children just as much as I do. It’s a frustrating dynamic that can be exhausting for him.
I crave constant reassurance to calm my racing thoughts, even if just for a moment. The battle against worst-case scenarios is relentless—exhausting, brutal, and all-consuming. If I had a way to escape this state of constant unease, I would do anything to find that relief.
I am proactive about managing my mental health. I’ve recognized this struggle for years and understand that therapy, medication, and personal coping strategies like exercise and self-care are essential. They help mitigate the daily burden of anxiety, but they don’t erase it.
Every day is a struggle to function like someone without anxiety. I wish to be the mom who doesn’t let a common cold push her to the edge or who doesn’t feel suffocated when her husband takes the kids to the dentist. I yearn to be free from the fear that any misstep will lead to dire consequences.
I genuinely want to be the mom who can “trust her instincts.” To the outside world, I appear to do just that. I’m involved in my children’s lives, from their education to pediatric visits, creating a semblance of normalcy. I encourage adventures and experiences for my kids, all while battling my internal struggle. It’s a fight hidden beneath the surface, and though I know I’m not alone, the reality can feel isolating.
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