By: Jamie Carter
Updated: Aug. 1, 2016
Originally Published: Jan. 13, 2013
Amidst a swirling haze of soldiers, firefighters, and princesses, I find myself pressed against the cold Formica surface, gasping for breath, bewildered as my vision blurs. My fingers twist tightly into the fabric of my Cinderella costume, squeezing my eyes shut as I desperately seek security from my own body. Adrenaline courses through me, leaving me trapped between the instinct to flee and the urge to fight.
My best friend, also in a Cinderella outfit, tugs at my dress. “The Halloween parade is starting! Get up!” she insists. My head spins as I force myself off the desk, aware that he’s out there, waiting to take me away once the parade ends.
My biological father was far from the figure I needed; being with him felt like stepping into danger.
As the parade begins, I catch a glimpse of him, and my stomach churns violently. Panic consumes me as I search for my mother—my lifeline. She sees the fear in my eyes, rescues me from the crowd, and leads me into a classmate’s home. There, she holds my hair and rubs my back as I retch into the toilet, the cold grip of fear lingering long after my stomach is empty.
At eight years old, I was no stranger to panic attacks. These episodes, coupled with severe separation anxiety from my mother and troubling stomach issues, haunted me for years. My mother’s unwavering love drove her to seek help, navigating from pediatricians to gastroenterologists and child psychologists. I was, however, too astute for my own good. I understood the chaos my anxiety could unleash on those I loved, so I made the conscious decision to bear it alone rather than accept the help offered.
Anxiety has shadowed me throughout my life, surfacing at times that should have been filled with joy—during college, my initial years of teaching, and especially after each of my children was born.
When I awoke at 3 a.m. the night my third child was born, my heart pounding and my mind racing with fears, I knew I had to act. I promptly scheduled an appointment with a therapist specializing in postpartum depression and anxiety. She would help me combat the relentless worries that plagued me: fears of my house burning down with my children inside, of my van skidding off a bridge into the bay, and even of vampires attacking them. How could I protect them?
Therapy provided some relief, but it was medication that truly transformed my life. I clung to the hope that these treatments would also shield my children from inheriting my anxiety. I told myself that if they couldn’t see my struggles, they wouldn’t adopt them.
“Winter Wonderland” became our family’s favorite song that Christmas season. My three-year-old daughter, Emma, belted it out with joy. One day, after singing “Later on, we’ll conspire as we dream by the fire,” she innocently asked, “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 chuckled and shared it on social media, thinking it was simply a cute observation. But a friend’s comment—“Like mother, like daughter”—sent a chill down my spine. Was my daughter’s innocent logic a sign that my fears had already taken root in her?
I began to notice other signs of anxiety in my children. Emma once sobbed into my chest, overwhelmed by the thought of the Beast dying in a movie, despite knowing he lived. My six-year-old son, Lucas, panicked when he realized he had lost his math homework, exclaiming, “I can’t go to school! I’ll get in trouble!” As my heart raced in response to his distress, I realized that his intense reaction likely stemmed from my own influence—both genetically and environmentally.
He had absorbed my worry, having been surrounded by it even before he was born. I had to break this cycle. I needed to teach them to recognize the physical signs of stress, to articulate their fears, and to employ the strategies that have aided me in calming unnecessary anxiety. Together, we talk, write, and draw our worries away. We reason through our fears and practice letting go through visualization and breathing techniques.
I believe I can coexist with my anxiety, and more importantly, I can model for my children a healthier approach to life. I strive to give them a childhood filled with resilience and strength, one that I didn’t have.
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In summary, the journey of managing anxiety is deeply personal, intricately woven into my experiences as a child and a parent. By learning from my struggles and actively working towards a healthier mindset, I aim to foster resilience in my children, breaking the cycle of anxiety that has haunted me for so long.
Keyphrase: navigating anxiety
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