The most intense moment of my life came when I bolted off an airplane amidst a panic attack. Two hundred pairs of eyes were glued on me, including my young son’s, who, with a quiver in his voice, asked me to stop crying.
We were en route to a wedding, yet earlier that day, a crucial work project I was supposed to wrap up had crumbled. Working remotely led me to foolishly assume I could handle last-minute tasks using the in-flight WiFi. As I navigated the security line, my phone dinged ominously, signaling trouble. Anxiety twisted in my stomach as I led my toddler onto the escalator, and my mind spiraled into a flurry of “shoulds.”
I should have chosen a later flight. I should have informed my bosses about my travel plans. I should have arrived at the airport earlier to send the files they needed.
By the time the flight attendant announced that the WiFi was down, I felt the weight of fate pressing down on me. The project deadline loomed at two o’clock, the exact moment we were scheduled to land. My options narrowed to an agonizing choice: stay on the plane and risk my job, or jump off to finish the project. Neither felt like a viable option.
I’ve been an anxious person for as long as I can remember. I was so distressed when my mom brought me home from the hospital that I literally screamed my belly button loose, much to the delight of my OBGYN.
Throughout my school years, I battled what I termed the “thought police,” feeling compelled to confide in my parents whenever intrusive thoughts invaded my mind. In high school, I was a straight-A student who plastered flashcards on my ceiling for late-night study sessions. College was a different story; I found solace in drinking, escaping reality until I blacked out. It took years of therapy to realize that both my fervent studying and my drinking were just coping mechanisms for my unrelenting anxiety.
I began to truly address my anxiety when I quit drinking nine years ago. Since then, I’ve collaborated with two fantastic therapists, devoured countless self-help books, and adopted meditation and exercise as cornerstones of my self-care routine. This balance granted me stability while still allowing me to crave adventure. And then, I became a parent.
The arrival of my beautiful 7 lb 8 oz son made me aware of how much I had relied on perfectionism and control to manage my anxiety. I had underestimated the impact of sleepless nights, thinking optimistically that he would sleep through the night by three months. Little did I know, I would endure 18 months of broken sleep. I remember dropping him off at his mother’s day out program and sitting in my car, crying from sheer exhaustion.
When my son reached two, tantrums entered our lives with a vengeance, and I found myself struggling not to succumb to panic attacks while he wailed on the floor. The coping strategies that had worked before parenthood were failing me.
Yes, my son deserved a mother who could handle the chaos. But, equally important was the realization that I deserved to feel better for my own sake. Everyone does. I had moved across the country since my last therapist, and the thought of finding a new one felt overwhelming. After a few attempts, I finally found an empathetic therapist close to my age. We meet regularly, and while I can’t eliminate my anxiety, she helps me diversify my coping strategies.
In the moment of my panic on the plane, all my coping mechanisms vanished. I somehow made it home, finished the project, and immediately called my therapist. “I abandoned my son! I LEFT HIM on an AIRPLANE!” I sobbed, shaking. “There’s no coming back from this.”
“Let’s reevaluate that statement,” she replied. “You left him with your loving and capable husband.” In that moment, I received a photo of my husband and son beaming at a children’s museum in our destination city. It both comforted and pained me; I should have been there.
Before this incident, I had always believed that my anxiety and zest for life were two sides of the same coin, and that feeling anxious sometimes meant I was fully experiencing life. But this time, my anxiety felt like a burden. It wasn’t until my therapist reminded me, “This isn’t the end of the story. This is just one moment among countless others you’ll share with your son. What matters is how you repair after difficult moments,” that I found solace.
I now had the chance to teach my son about feelings, love, and the importance of imperfection. My anxiety ultimately makes me a better mom; it pushes me beyond my comfort zone, prompting me to learn new coping mechanisms that I can then share with my son. We have deeper conversations about emotions and actions, and we emphasize the importance of unconditional love.
Many families practice these values, but my journey with anxiety has enriched this practice in a way I wouldn’t have achieved otherwise. My son is learning that messy moments hold value, that there is always a way forward, and that as Brene Brown aptly states, “I’m imperfect, but I am enough… Worthiness does not have prerequisites.”
To be honest, I didn’t want to learn or teach these lessons through my mental health struggles. I envisioned a perfect, serene motherhood—like the opening scenes of a Disney movie. Yet, sometimes I embody the calm, and other times I’m the villain. Regardless, we discuss self-care and move forward, one step at a time.
I couldn’t catch a flight to reunite with my family until the next day. By then, I felt rested and somewhat recovered. My son was less concerned about my earlier departure than I had feared; he was thrilled to share tales of mastering a gigantic slide at the park near our hotel. He had thrived with his dad, and now we were back together as a messy, imperfect, but stronger family unit.
In summary, my anxiety has taught me invaluable lessons about parenting and emotional resilience. While it may feel overwhelming at times, it ultimately enables me to create a deeper connection with my son, fostering an environment where we can both grow and learn from our experiences together.
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