The Best Possible Mother
By Rebecca Moran
@rebecca_m_writes
It starts with a seemingly innocuous event: my daughter’s kindergarten classmate vomits in the trash can. Her classmate is the first of many to throw up publicly, as the stomach bug sweeps through the classroom. My daughter becomes terrified that she, too, will get sick in front of everyone—enough so that she begins regularly experiencing nausea.
At first, I suspect her fear is a stage that will pass. But her fears quickly expand over the next two months.
On our way to an amusement park a few weeks later, she tells me quietly, “My tummy hurts.”
Then, almost a whisper, “What if I get sick there?”
This statement-and-question series has become a daily occurrence on her way to school, dance class, friends’ houses, or any other destination that isn’t home. My heart breaks for her as an image from my own childhood fills my mind: I’m sitting on my bed, fighting through the tightness in my chest to take deep breaths as the little voice in my head persists, “What if I’m really sick? What’s going to happen? Should I try to yell for Mom or Dad? What if I’m dying? What if … ?”
I respond to my daughter using my own anxiety toolbox, amassed over more than fifteen years of therapy.
I start with a counterstatement, a tool I use almost daily myself. “Sweetie, you don’t have a fever, and your tummy ache just started, so you probably aren’t sick.”
I move on to a worst-case scenario plan. “If you start feeling worse there, just let me or Daddy know, and we’ll leave.”
With every one of her ifs, I’ll save her. That’s the plan we consistently make.
But I’m still learning to save myself.
***
I run into my daughter’s teacher at barre class, and she tells me she’s been meaning to reach out. “She’s having stomach pains and hasn’t really been eating at lunch,” she reveals. “She says eating makes her stomach hurt more.”
I ask my daughter about it later, during our regular bedtime chat. She stares at her blanket. “I don’t want to get sick after I eat,” she mumbles.
We’ve had this conversation so many times that my typical assurances feel worthless. All I can do is wrap her in my arms and breathe deeply as I feel my own anxiety rise.
After I tuck her in, I head downstairs and tell my husband about our conversation. “Let’s see how she does after school ends,” he says. “Maybe the slower pace of summer vacation will help.”
Two weeks later, after summer break begins, I bring her to the first day of summer camp. A counselor calls a couple hours later to tell me my daughter is experiencing nausea.
“She’s too young to have anxiety,” I say to my husband after the call ends. “She’s only six.”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “How old were you when it started?”
***
The chest pains, numb limbs, and shortness of breath didn’t begin until I was nine. Each time, I was sure I was dying. I’d move my fingers along my throat until I found my pulse—proof that my heart was still doing what it should be—then wait out the agonizing minutes until my breath slowed and my body loosened.
It wasn’t until I was eighteen that a therapist at my university’s health center provided an explanation: “You’re having panic attacks.” I sank into my chair as if I had exhaled after years of holding my breath. I finally had an answer.
My therapist explained that panic attacks can happen at any time, noting that many of his patients reported having them when watching TV, reading, or hanging out with friends. He assured me I wouldn’t die from a panic attack and—while he couldn’t guarantee I’d ever be “cured”—he would help me reduce their frequency and intensity.
With each piece of information, I felt my shoulders drop more.
But after the initial relief, grief set in. I grieved for the years I needlessly suffered, convincing myself I had some horrible disease, then doubting my sanity when doctors assured me I was fine. Years of distrusting my body and seeking relief with food, alcohol, bad relationships, or whatever else distracted from the physical discomfort and intrusive thoughts. All I needed was an answer. That answer.
It didn’t have to be that way.
***
Before becoming a mother, I vowed my kids’ childhoods would be vastly different from mine. Much of my anxiety stems from events in my early years that triggered shame, fear, and feelings of inadequacy. I would never recreate those circumstances for my children. I’d save them from the pain I endured.
So why is she anxious?
I begin to fear the worst possible answer.
As we lie in bed after her first day of summer camp, I whisper to my husband in the dark, “What if I passed my anxiety on to her?”
***
A week later, we head to a nearby lake with another family. This day on a rented pontoon boat has become a highly-anticipated summer tradition: the kids love flying across the water’s surface on a huge tube; my husband enjoys exploring the lake’s many nooks and crannies; my friend and I get to put our feet up and bask in the sun.
Walking toward the marina, my daughter asks, “What if I get sick on the boat?”
“Why do you think you will?” I ask in a cheerful voice, trying to mask my sadness. She shrugs.
“I don’t think you’ll throw up because you aren’t sick, but if you do, we’ll turn the boat around and take care of you, okay?” She nods.
“Hey, do you think Dad will let you drive the boat again?” I ask, trying to change the subject. A smile stretches across her face, and I feel relief.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Remember after I was driving crazy last time he said, ‘Remind me to never let you take the wheel again!’”
“I do,” I say, laughing. “But maybe he forgot.” I give her a conspiratorial wink.
Once we’re on the boat, I watch her shrink into herself. Rather than play with the other kids or race to be first on the tube, she sits on one of the leather benches, hugging her knees to her chest. She refuses to swim and, later, to eat. As everyone ventures into the water after lunch, I hold her on my lap, and she rests her head on my shoulder.
What did I need when I was in the throes of anxiety as a child? I stroke her hair and whisper in her ear that she is okay, that she is safe.
That night, my husband and I agree it’s time to find a children’s therapist. “I wish my parents had sent me sooner,” I tell him. “She doesn’t need to suffer.”
***
When I meet with my own therapist, I fill her in on the progression of my daughter’s anxiety, then ask if she has recommendations for a children’s therapist.
“This is a lot,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
I tell her that watching my daughter go through this and knowing what she’s experiencing has been a nightmare. “My spirited, adventurous little girl is disappearing. I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“Why do you think you did something wrong?” she asks.
“Why else would she have anxiety like this?” I pause, then repeat the question I dared to ask my husband. “Is it possible she inherited it from me?”
She explains that we can’t know for sure if her anxiety is genetic, the result of her experiences, or a combination of both. “But what really matters is you’re doing everything you can to support her through this. You’ve asked me what you can do to help her. You’re looking for a therapist. You’re doing all the right things.”
“Try to not blame yourself,” she gently adds, and we make a plan to work through my anxiety-rooted beliefs that it’s my fault when things aren’t going as they “should” be.
***
My husband and I meet with the woman my therapist recommended. She is sweet and soft-spoken. Her office holds a wealth of creative activities for kids, including a well-stocked art desk. I know my daughter will like both her and the space.
Over the next eight months, my daughter sees her weekly. She looks forward to going and proudly leaves the office with art she creates during each session.
Her progress is slow, but mostly steady. Occasionally, her anxiety intensifies, then subsides. In regular meetings with her therapist, my husband and I learn how we can guide our daughter through tough times and encourage her to use the tools she’s learning. She gives the monster under her bed a funny name, and we all start referring to it as Cheddar Broccoli. We help her create a cozy corner where she can retreat to when she feels anxious. She begins to name her feelings. We learn to praise her efforts versus the outcomes, and I begin to do this for myself, too.
I watch my daughter grow lighter, more present, excited about life again—and my own fears and worries about her anxiety begin to dissipate. We did the right thing. We got her help. We are good parents. Even if she were still struggling with anxiety, I am a good mother. The affirmations I’ve been repeating for months begin to feel true.
After I give my therapist the latest update on my daughter’s progress, she’s quiet for a moment.“You knew exactly what she was going through and what she needed when she was struggling,” she says, nodding encouragingly. “Whether she inherited anxiety from you or not, the fact is you are the best possible mother for her because you have anxiety.”
***
Just over a year later, I continue to hold my therapist’s words close—a reminder that my struggles, my flaws, all the imperfect parts of me are a gift. They make me just as perfect a mother for my daughter as do my good qualities and tireless efforts to create a better childhood for her. Perhaps even more so.
On the way to her first soccer game of the season, my daughter announces her stomach hurts. I ask if the pain just started, and she nods.
“Is it possible you’re nervous about the game and that’s making your stomach hurt?”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Do you want to try deep breaths?”
She nods again and we do a breathing exercise. After a few rounds, I ask if she wants to continue.
“No, I feel better.” She smiles.
I smile back, then wink. “I’ve got you, girl.”
Guest essay written by Rebecca Moran. Rebecca is a mother, editor, writer, and semi-recovering shoe addict. She lives with her husband, twin daughter and son, and two feisty dogs outside of Charlotte, North Carolina. Her writing has appeared in a range of publications and sites including Glamour, Connecticut magazine, Gawker, PR Daily, Coffee + Crumbs, and Scary Mommy. When she isn't writing and doing all the mom things, she's likely curled up with a book and coffee or at a barre class. You can connect with her on Instagram and read more of her work on Substack.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.