Be Careful
Photo Courtesy: Leesha Mony
BY LEESHA MONY
Before becoming a mother, I always wondered what type of parent I would be. I wondered if all of my best efforts and intentions would pay off. I wondered if I would know what to do or how to handle the difficult moments and seasons. I wondered if, in some way, mothering would be easier than I was expecting and if I would silently think to myself – what are all these people talking about? When things became more challenging, I wondered if I would have learned enough tools to navigate the uncharted waters without completely losing myself. I wondered if I would be good at parenting or if I would like it. I knew I wanted to be a kind mother, a mother who was loving, supportive, gentle, compassionate, attuned, and emotionally available. I also knew I wanted to be protective and keep my child safe while also not parenting from a place of fear. Out of all my wonderings, my biggest worry was my worry. Anxiety has always been a part of my life, and even though I was in the business of breaking generational cycles, I still wondered what would happen if my anxiety became too big of a component of my motherhood journey. Most importantly, I wondered how I would release the hand-me-downs of fear that so un-graciously came before I became a mother.
Fear and anxiety have always been a part of my life. In fact, I believe it has been a part of my lineage for centuries. I come from an incredibly anxious mother, who came from a mother who was even more anxious than she. When I call my mother on the phone, she doesn't answer with a "hello", she answers with a "what's wrong?" For as long as I can remember, I have remembered anxiety. I remember the tightness that overtakes my chest and steals my breath, the blurry vision that always tries to make me see something that isn't there, and the shallow constriction of my body's movements as panic rushes through my cells. When I was young, I related to names like cautious, hesitant, careful, homesick, and particular. These names do not go unwarranted. I liked to, and still do, take in my environment before engaging; I want to see the road before I travel; I like things planned, neat, rehearsed, well thought out, and most of all, I like the feeling of being able to anticipate what's to come. For most of my life, I have lived with these parts of me and accepted that the sense of safety and comfort comes when I can feel as though I have control.
When I became a mother, I promptly learned that a lot of the role is actually learning how to live in rapid unforeseen transitions, chapters of uncertainty, and a whole lot of I don't knows. Mothering, I would discover, is a process of real-time, in-the-moment learning, ruptures, and repairs, getting things right and wrong while, at times, being completely helpless. It would be a process that would constantly be evolving and would ask me to do the same. Eventually, I would understand and embody the struggles that others often shared while coming to terms with the fact that not only was there no way of escaping them, but my anxiety would also be lurking just around the corner.
The anxiety that came along with early motherhood seemed somewhat appropriate. Is he eating enough? Sleeping enough? Pooping and peeing enough? Breathing enough? The early days seemed like it was all about learning to meet someone's basic needs while also ensuring that I was meeting my own. As he got older and movement became more of a thing, I noticed my anxiety soar. My hypervigilance around our environment became loud, as I wanted to baby-proof everything that was already baby proofed. I determined no false move under my watch, yet I quickly realized that what I really needed to baby-proof was my anxiety. So that's what I did; I trusted more and remembered the important reality that if something happened or he got too upset, I would be right here. Then in a blink of an eye, it was COVID, and then time for daycare while navigating the horrors that so many of us go through as we release our hands, trusting others around us. Yet, we managed, though not without our fair share of tears, guilt, and grief.
My son is now three, and our lives again have drastically shifted. His independence and will are just where they need to be. He is taking appropriate risks, testing the limits of gravity and the world, and mastering being able to recover after things don't go according to plan. Everything was seemingly appropriate except my anxiety. Every time I see him on unstable ground or near possible danger, two dreaded words slip out of my mouth without me even realizing it, "Be careful!" Be careful; I have realized I say about 50 times a day, even though I know that what I am teaching him is to be afraid of whatever it is he is doing. I have tried my hardest to reframe, to say things like, "Do your feet feel balanced?" "Can you see that big gap in the street?” "Does your body feel stable?" "Do you notice the distance from the chair to the couch?" "Do you think your feet can fit on that rock?" Even though this way of communicating and teaching lives in my mind, what comes out is my own fear. Whenever I say, "Be careful," I quickly respond with guilt and frustration with myself. Why can't I learn? I ask over and over, Why is this so hard for me?
When I became a mother, my relationship with my mother deepened and provided a deep opportunity for healing that both of us took advantage of. My mother was visiting for the weekend not too long ago. During her visit, we decided to take my son to the park. As my son chose to try and conquer a steep climbing wall, I watched for a little while anxiety free but aware, knowing that this was not his first attempt. Suddenly he began to move more quickly, and he heard my mother and me yelling simultaneously, "Be careful!" At that moment, I realized that not all of my be carefuls were my own, that, in fact, some of them belonged to my mother's voice. This awareness broke me open and offered me the insight I needed to understand why fearing the world was so ingrained in my psyche. I looked at her and noticed she didn't think anything of it, she didn't even blink, and for all I knew, she might have just been happy that we were on the same page. Yet, I didn't want to be on that page anymore; I wanted to be in a completely new book.
What followed was a profound realization of the generational anxiety that has been passed down and its impacts on our lives. I thought of all of the ways my mother was raised and her mother and her mother. Fearing the worst possible outcome meant that you could prepare for it, but that way of viewing the world left out the possibility of also preparing for the best possible outcome. What would it be like to prepare for the best possible outcome, and how, as a mother, might I be able to orient to that way of thinking?
As these newfound insights poured into me, compassion poured out. Not only was my heart breaking for my mom, whose anxiety still is loud and untamed, but also for me, for my younger parts, that learned that anxiety should be used as a tool to keep me safe. Understanding the ins and outs of these inherited patterns has helped me not only have a little bit of space before yelling "be careful," but it also helped me to tend to myself more compassionately and lovingly after the words made their way out anyways.
As mothers, we are asked to do the things that challenge us every day. We are asked to trust the world, which can sometimes be scary and disheartening. We are asked to trust ourselves while parenting from our own histories, our own wounds, and our own nervous systems. We are asked to look at our own patterns and unravel them to create new ways of being in hopes that our children may have it easier than we did. We are asked to learn in real-time and to be able to care for ourselves when our own reactions don't fit what we intended. We are asked to repeatedly show up day after day, night after night, without knowing what each moment might bring.
As a mother, I must continue to ask myself what I didn't get as a child so that I can better learn how to give it. While at the same time, I must continue to ask myself what I got too much of as a child so I can better try to learn how not to give it. As a mother, I have to be okay with not having these answers right away. I have to be okay with learning in real-time and knowing that each awareness makes way for an opportunity to revisit and relearn for not only us but for the generations that came before.
LEESHA MONY is a mother, writer, and somatic psychotherapist living in Seattle, WA. Leesha’s heart work lies in perinatal mental health and supporting survivors to navigate the intersectionality of trauma and birth. For Leesha, writing has also been a way into the deeper layer of self and others and provided a means for healing. Leesha’s writing intends to give voice to the often unnamed experiences that mothers navigate, hoping that other people will find pieces of themselves and their truths reflected in her words.