Today was not a good day. I am only one of many parents with anxiety, but I still felt alone in a horrible day. I could not outrun or bury the grumpiness that hovered over me all day. From the moment my kids woke me up an hour too early—their nightlight still emitting the soft blue glow they know means sleep—my furrowed brow judged them. My tense shoulders pushed them away. And my curt, bitter tone stung their small, vulnerable hearts.

When I was little, I never pretended to be a bride or dreamed of my wedding day. However, I did imagine myself as a parent. I wanted to be fun, to read books all day long, to hold my child’s hand as we strolled down the street happily, and to play with dolls or action figures with them on the floor. I planned to dance and play tag and roll around and wrestle. I envisioned my house echoing with laughter.

As such, I hate the sound of my anger and impatience and exhaustion filling our house and bouncing off the walls. I despise being a grouch and snapping at my kids. Most of all, I loathe sending them the message that they annoy me, that they make my life difficult, that they are too challenging for me to love them completely. 

That’s neither the parent nor person I wanted to be. So how did I transform into this person? How did I lose sight of the parent I envisioned I would be? 

The cohesion of my anxiety

I began to notice my abnormal yelling after I gave birth to my second child in 2018. Subsequently, as my children grew taller, my yelling grew louder and more frequent. However, intense and intentional self-reflection helped me to realize that drops of anxiety had been cohering throughout my life, forming an ocean of emotional insecurity. 

The love of my life, my best friend

Setting aside my childhood challenges or later my father disowning me, I can recall exactly the first time my anxiety became palpable in my adult life: I had just realized that I had fallen utterly and completely in love with the man I would eventually marry. 

At 29 years old, I had dated plenty and knew all too well what I didn’t want. From the moment I met David, our lives and dreams aligned seamlessly. Our first date lasted eleven hours, as ice cream and a movie turned into lunch that turned into a street art show that turned into dinner that turned into one beer at the pub that turned into listening to live music. The only reason I finally said goodnight was because I almost fell off the barstool from exhaustion. 

No one . . . had warned me that such brilliant love and security could cast long shadows of anxiety.

From that moment forward, communicating and merging our dreams proved effortless and natural. I found a genuinely kind and patient partner. To this day, my husband sees me for who I am, believes in my potential, and supports my endeavors. And vice versa. I love him as deeply and equally as he loves me. I still gush about how much I love this man.

However, no one—not a single Disney animated film, not my parents, not even my recently married friends—had warned me that such brilliant love and security could cast long shadows of anxiety. If I didn’t catch myself and stop the ripple effect, my mind would become plagued with petrifying thoughts of me suddenly losing him because of outside factors—accidents, diseases, people with ill intent. 

In fact, just writing down these fears spiked my anxiety. 

Becoming a momma

At 32 years old, I had only a few friends who had children. I’d attended their baby showers, cuddled their babies, and listened to their struggles with postpartum depression. I also had conversations with other parents with anxiety. In short, I knew motherhood would have its challenges, but no one can fully understand parenting life until they experience it themselves. 

For me, my introduction to motherhood included

• nearly losing our baby at 28 weeks in utero;
• a two-week emergency hospitalization;
• housebound partial bed rest; 
• postponing my baby shower until well after delivery;
• a challenging post-birth experience;
• going home while leaving our precious new baby in the NICU;
• breastfeeding difficulties with practically no external support; and 
• two years of physical therapy for our little one. 

Looking at him today, you’d never know all my little guy endured his first two years of life. Whatever challenge arose, my son always gave 110% effort. I’m one blessed, proud momma.

Nonetheless, I didn’t have time to process and feel all the complex emotions associated with what we’d experienced. For example, I’d engrossed myself in teleworking from my hospital bed and then home; driving to and from the NICU; researching ways to increase my milk supply; keeping up with the mindless, automatic, sleep-deprived motions of caring for a newborn; and ensuring I scheduled and performed my baby’s physical therapy. I could not see these separate basins of anxiety pooling together.

After my son’s second birthday and PT graduation, we perfected our family routine. So of course that seemed like a great time to create another little human. We’d figured out everything with the first kid. We’d overcome every challenge that tried to knock us down. What couldn’t we handle, right?

Fearing newborn fragility

Before I gave birth to my next baby boy, I had read all the typical articles reassuring me that I had enough room in my heart to love another child as much as I did the first. Not a single parenting blog or book warned me that I could feel the complete opposite. 

To begin with, I knew all too well the fragility of babies. Suddenly, my preschooler’s delayed fine and gross motor skills terrified me. Every second my boys were together, I feared my preschooler would accidentally hurt his baby brother, that rather than laying beside the baby he would tumble onto him, that rather than hug the baby he would crush him, that rather than give the baby a toy he would launch it at him.

I wish I could go back in time and hug that 3-year-old version of my son.

Never in my life had I said so many times a day, “Stop. Don’t do that. Give him space. You can’t do that. Not like that. That’s not safe. Go find Dadda.” 

I wish I could go back in time and hug that 3-year-old version of my son. I would pull him onto my lap, tuck his head under my chin, and reassure him that transitions are hard for everyone, that he was not the problem. Above all, I wish I had the language to tell him that no matter what, I loved him with all my heart and that I could never love anyone more than I loved him. 

I was so naive 

Unfortunately, I didn’t have that language or those skills back then. Even though I did the best I could with the knowledge I had, I didn’t understand how that ever-present fear heightened my anxiety exponentially. Moreover, I didn’t realize that spending more time with both kids together would exacerbate my symptoms. 

So three months later, when my preschooler’s daycare closed a week before my maternity leave ended, causing me to break out in hives, I chose to become an at-home parent of a 3-year-old and infant. I thought this opportunity would give me more time to fix my bond with my preschooler, that I’d be able to play with my kids all day. I was so incredibly naive. 

I had no concept that my days would actually revolve around me tending to their constant needs, that I would feel utterly alone surrounded by little people who couldn’t care about my needs. Logically, I know that children are not responsible for tending to my needs. That’s my job.

But logic failed me back then. Even though I eventually found helpful resources—particularly my local parents group and an affordable part-time preschool—I was always tired. Always struggling. Always outnumbered. Anxiety flooded me with adrenaline, and the screaming increased. 

The breaking point: repeating past trauma

On the eve of Christmas Eve 2019, I was baking my sixth batch of cookies. Yeah, you read that right: my sixth. I’m not even going to address here the unrealistic pressure placed on parents, particularly mothers, to make the holiday season magical.

Anyway, while I silently cursed the sugar dough that refused to peel away from the parchment, I heard the kids’ mischievous giggles zigzagging around the living room. My mom-sense warned me something was amiss. When I checked on them, I discovered every single toy and every single disconnected piece strewn around the room. 

My chest constricted. I couldn’t breathe. My mind raced trying to process how long it would take to re-sort and match up all those pieces, pack them up in their designated bags and bins, and put them away. I was beyond tired, with a kitchen covered in all-purpose flour and littered with dirty dishes and with three more rounds of sticky sugar cookies to wrestle. 

I picked up my preschooler by the armpits and yelled into his small blank face.

I didn’t just yell; I screamed at my kids as if they had crashed the car through the living room and set the house on fire at the same time. My face turned blood red, my voice got hoarse, and I picked up my preschooler by the armpits and yelled into his small blank face. I released a torrent of frustration, resentment, and anger upon my child, who was just playing.

Choosing to change and making repairs

Amidst that chaos, I flashed back to my childhood: my dad screaming at me, his body looming so close to mine that I had to lean back while his spit sprayed my face. I didn’t flinch; I became a statue, cold and unmoving. He had yelled at and spanked me enough that his rage didn’t phase me anymore. I hated him. 

As my father’s enraged face faded away, I saw my son’s small, stoic face. I tore myself away, ran into my bedroom, flung myself on the bed, and sobbed so hard that no sounds came out, so hard that my ribs ached. 

I hated myself for succumbing to that holiday pressure, for taking on too much, and for ruining that Christmas magic. Mostly, I hated that I had repeated the emotional abuse of my childhood.

As I cried, my husband reassured me I wasn’t a horrible parent, that raising kids is hard, and that I’m not my father. I'm just human. But I told David I needed help to stop the cycle. No matter how many times I’d vowed to never yell again, to never traumatize my kid again, to never grab my child roughly again—the moment the chaos within our home reached its apex and I felt unheard and ignored, I resorted to yelling to make them listen. 

If we wanted our family to change, David and I needed to change first. 

Later, I sat on the stairs with my son, looked him in the eyes, and apologized: something my father has never done. I told my little boy that momma had overreacted, that under no circumstances did he deserve to be treated that way by anyone, that he was remarkable, and that I loved him. And I promised I would do better, for him.

Taking action; finding other parents with anxiety

With the holidays behind us, David and I registered for Dr. Laura Markham’s Peaceful Parents, Happy Kids parenting course. Until I took these online coaching classes, I couldn’t even recognize what constant anxiety felt like: Wasn’t being hyper alert, anxious, tense, on edge, easily agitated, and panicky all day long part of the parenting package? No, my friend. It’s not. 

I had been completely unaware of the extent to which my anxiety had so negatively impacted my parenting and my relationship with my kids. But listing to other moms and dads share their struggles, connecting with other parents with anxiety, helped me to realize I'm not alone.

My yelling hides my anxiety. My anxiety stems from my desperate need for control and order. And that desperate need originates from my childhood.

Moreover, thanks to peaceful and positive parenting gurus like Dr. Laura, I learned that my yelling hides my anxiety. My anxiety stems from my desperate need for control and order. And that desperate need originates from my childhood, where I had no control over my parents’ moods and where order equated to peace, to not being yelled at or spanked. And my parents had learned their responses from their parents. The further I look backward, the clearer I see the generational pattern. Unkowningly, I had been teaching my kids the same message. 

No more. David and I are going to end that cycle.

Progress, not perfection, especially for parents with anxiety

I’m not going to lie and say that peaceful parenting magically made all our troubles disappear. Looking inside myself, facing all the ugly moments in my distant and recent past, acknowledging and examining my shortcomings, and forgiving myself and building myself back up again was some of the hardest work I’ve ever done. 

But my kids are worth it. 

I am worth it. 

Yes, I still have bad days. I do tend to yell, though not as much. And I’m still trying to do better, to be better. When I mess up, when my anger gets the best of me, I apologize to my kids. I keep working to repair our relationship. And my kids know I’m doing this work for them. They see that we all make mistakes. They see we are all capable of learning and growing. 

When I mess up, when my anger gets the best of me, I apologize to my kids. I keep working to repair our relationship.

Despite the pandemic, I have made tremendous progress on healing myself and creating a different message in my home. My relationship with both of my boys is stronger and healthier. I tell my kids every day that they are my treasure. I shower them with kisses and cuddles. I tell them I could never love anyone more than I love them.

And you know what? I am a fun parent. I do read books with my kids every day. Sometimes my child will choose to hold my hand as we stroll down the street. I do play on the floor with them. We dance, play tag, roll around, and wrestle. Our house does echo with laughter.

Featured photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash