When I was younger, my fears revolved around dark subjects—murderers, plane crashes, and car accidents. I would conjure elaborate scenarios in my mind, convinced I had faced some bizarre demise in a past life. I often found myself envious of those, like my partner, who could effortlessly drift into sleep without a care. How could they not worry about the next catastrophic earthquake or the environmental destruction caused by our actions? It baffled me.
After the birth of my second child, I sought therapy to navigate the overwhelming guilt I felt after he experienced a stroke. It was there I uncovered a truth I had long suspected: I was grappling with anxiety. Every drive to our cabin was an exercise in tension, convinced that a herd of deer would suddenly appear, leading to a horrific accident involving my family.
This anxiety was evident even in childhood. My dad designated the oddest punishment for my teasing about his uptight nature—prohibiting me from my homework until I cleaned the bathroom with a toothbrush. “What kind of kid wants to do homework that much?” he would ask, baffled. Well, this kid, it turns out. I vividly remember the pressure I felt, convinced that if I didn’t finish my chemistry assignment immediately, the world would somehow cease to function. My therapist would likely chalk this up to my anxiety and paranoia, urging me to relax.
As a parent, my fears shifted from concerns about my safety to those surrounding my children’s wellbeing. What if I accidentally let my son tumble from the changing table? What if he choked on a mouthful of Cheerios before I could save him? My mind would spiral into dark fantasies of him figuring out how to escape his crib and drowning in the tub while I slept.
These fears, while irrational, played out vividly in my mind like an award-winning drama. Now that my eldest is six and brimming with curiosity, my worries have transformed into something even more daunting: the loss of his innocence. The thought of him experiencing life’s harsh realities is unbearable. I dread the day he faces his first real disappointment or encounters cruelty from peers or adults alike.
These fears hit home during a camping trip a few years back. For the first time, I watched my not-so-little boy play with an older child at the campground. Even though he was within my sight, I found myself consumed by concerns—not of accidents or physical harm, but of emotional pain. I feared he would be ridiculed, bullied, or hurt in ways that could tarnish his joyful spirit. I worried that these experiences would cloak his big-hearted nature in a protective shell, hardening him against the world’s cruelties.
When I was pregnant with my oldest, a coworker asked if I was anxious about parenting. I confidently dismissed the notion, believing that as parents, we could only do our best. Now, my perspective has shifted dramatically. “Am I worried about parenting? No,” I would say today. “What terrifies me is childhood—the uncontrollable nature of it. I can’t prevent them from growing up.” And that, indeed, is the most frightening reality of all.
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In summary, the journey of parenthood is fraught with fears that evolve over time, shifting from physical safety to the emotional wellbeing of our children. While we can control our actions as parents, we must ultimately come to terms with the fact that we cannot shield them from all of life’s hardships.