In an instant, I found myself caught in a whirlpool of water, disoriented and gasping as saltwater invaded my senses. When I finally broke the surface, panic set in—I couldn’t see my son. Just moments later, his bright blue swim shirt bobbed up like a wayward dolphin, and his head emerged, giggling as he tumbled back toward the shore. My heart raced, pounding against my throat, as if he had been submerged for ages. Grabbing his little arm, I exclaimed, “Are you okay? That must have been terrifying!”
His response was a broad grin. “That was awesome!”
Still shaking, I attempted to hold him close as the next wave approached, but he shoved me away, visibly annoyed. “Don’t hold me, Mom!” More often than not, when I rushed to his side out of concern, he’d roll his eyes and dash toward his father, declaring, “I’m fine!” I soon realized he relished the sensation of the waves flipping him over; for him, those fleeting seconds of uncertainty were thrilling rather than frightening.
Later that night, my partner shared a video of our beach antics. Watching it, I cringed at how tightly I clutched Ben during the waves, my face a mask of anxiety. I wished it was just a fleeting moment of overprotectiveness, but a flood of memories washed over me: the times he played in the front yard near the street, scaled the height of his treehouse without barriers, sped down the sidewalk on his scooter, and ventured too close to cliffs and seawalls. How had I transformed into this anxious parent? I grew up with minimal supervision, a free-range child who navigated the city alone and traveled through Europe without a care. Why was I now so fearful of letting my son explore, swim, and run?
My husband, on the other hand, has a different parenting style. His willingness to push boundaries has fostered a child who confidently tests his limits, secure in the knowledge that he’ll be alright. He taught Ben to dive to the bottom of the pool while I stood by, biting my lip and envisioning performing CPR on my little boy. My husband is quick to encourage, saying “Just do it” while I hesitate with “I’m not so sure.”
I often think of my grandmother, who, after her only son—my uncle—was injured during a skirmish in 1947, urged my grandfather for another child. She wanted a “backup”—a line of defense against the worst-case scenario. Although my circumstances are not as dire, I can’t escape the nagging fear that being a mother to just one child leaves me grappling with the existential dread of how I would cope if something terrible were to happen. Perhaps my need to cling stems from a deeply ingrained instinct, a genetic echo that runs through my very being.
What I’ve learned from our beach vacation, however, is the necessity of letting go. Letting go of my relentless drive to stay productive, of the stress accumulated over months, of my rigid routines, and most importantly, of the need to shield my son from every potential danger. Overprotectiveness doesn’t create a safer child; it breeds resentment. Instead of nurturing independence, it stifles exploration, leading to a child unprepared to navigate risks. Sure, there may be scrapes and bruises along the way, but the reward is a resilient child who understands his limitations, who knows that even in moments of chaos—when he’s upside down and his breath is momentarily caught—he can find his way back to safety. So, while I won’t hold him too tightly, I’ll be nearby, ready to catch him if needed.
This article was originally published on August 4, 2015.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the journey of a mother grappling with anxiety as she navigates the challenges of allowing her son the freedom to explore and take risks. Despite her instinctual fears, she learns the importance of letting go, realizing that overprotection can hinder a child’s growth. Through personal anecdotes and comparisons with her husband’s parenting style, she finds a balance between being supportive and allowing her son to learn resilience.
Keyphrase: Parenting with Anxiety
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