In the quiet moments when the world stands still, I find myself tangled in a web of guilt, like a spider ensnared in its own creation. It’s the guilt of inheritance, of passing down more than just genes to the most perfect of all of God’s creations, my daughter. She is beautiful, she is unbelievably smart, she has the quickest of wits, an angelic singing voice, and an earnest desire for excellence in all that she does. She is a beacon of light in my world, and yet, I can’t escape the weight of knowing that I’ve passed on something darker – my anxiety.
Anxiety, that relentless tormentor, crept into my life like a shadow at dusk, and it has clung to me like an indelible stain ever since. It’s a companion that never asked for an invitation but settled in, nonetheless. And now, it seems my daughter may be facing the same uninvited guest. I watch as she worries about matters that are beyond her control and takes responsibility for shortcomings that aren’t her fault. I see her lying in bed at night, her young mind racing with thoughts that should never burden a child. I fear she inherited anxiety from me, like an heirloom that no one ever wanted.
As a parent, I am left with a profound ache in my chest, the kind that only deep love and deeper guilt can bring. I want to take her pain away, to shield her from the storms I know too well. I wish, with every fiber of my being, that God would take this burden from her and cast it upon me. She is innocent, pure, and brimming with potential. She doesn’t deserve to feel this way. I plead with the Lord, please, don’t let her suffer as I have.
There’s a moment, when I watch her navigate the world with a brave face, when I realize that she’s mirroring my own anxiety-driven behaviors. It’s as if she’s picked up my fears and worries through osmosis. It’s a chilling realization, a reflection of the painful truth that our children often learn not just from what we say, but from what we do. It’s in the way she fidgets when things are uncertain, how she overthinks her schoolwork, and how she hesitates to ask for help when she needs it.
In my quieter moments, I search for answers. I seek solace in the words of therapists, in books about anxiety, and in the experiences of those who’ve walked this same path. I try to understand the roots of my own anxiety, to trace the contours of its twisted branches. But understanding doesn’t make the guilt vanish. It’s a heavy mantle, and it hangs on my shoulders like a shroud, a testament to the imperfection of being human.
I wish I had a magical formula, a surefire way to protect my daughter from the burdens of anxiety. But I’m just a parent, stumbling through the labyrinth of parenthood like so many before me. What I can do, what I must do, is to be her unwavering support. To listen when she speaks, to hold her close when the shadows grow long, and to let her know that she is loved beyond measure, anxiety and all.
In my daughter’s eyes, I see a reflection of myself, not just in the lines of our faces but in the intricate pattern of our anxieties. And while I may never fully absolve myself of the guilt for what I’ve passed on, I can strive to be her guide, her confidant, her safe haven in the midst of life’s tempests. I can teach her the power of resilience, the beauty of imperfection, and the strength that can emerge from the depths of suffering.
My prayer to the heavens remains the same: “Please, don’t let her suffer as I have.” But I know that life’s burdens, like a river’s current, have a way of flowing where they will. And my hope is that, with love and understanding, we can help her navigate those waters, finding her own way to the shores of peace and serenity, free from the relentless tormentor that is anxiety.
Hayden Coombs 