Amy was right. I am always getting ahead of things, jumping to conclusions, and creating new problems instead of just waiting to address problems if and when they actually arrive. And if there is only a 50 percent chance that what I worry about might happen, then there is also a 50 percent chance the opposite might happen, so why do I always choose to give the negative outcome all of my time and energy?
On the rare occasions when the stuff I’ve worried about actually ended up coming true, all my worrying ahead of time did nothing to help. When I was broke, did worrying get food on my family’s table? Nope. When I thought I was miscarrying, did my worry help that pregnancy thrive? Nope. But we trick ourselves into thinking our worry is protective or preventative, that working through every possible scenario somehow prepares us for the worst. But our negativity does not immunize us against the fallout or stress of the worst-case scenarios when they arrive. We live in this pretend horrible world, just so that we might avoid being surprised if something terrible happens, which so often leads us to missing out on all of the good stuff that is right in front of us.
My constant worrying also means that I unintentionally fall into the trap of parenting out of fear. It’s easy to get caught in that with young kids, but it’s even easier to fall victim to when parenting teenagers. The scary parts of parenting aren’t optional. That’s a fact. But constantly worrying about our kids’ futures won’t change their futures, though it will make us miserable in the present.
For years, I used to dread the Fourth of July. Here’s what it looked like from my perspective: I’d spend the day cooking whatever red, white, and blue side dish I signed up to bring, show up at friend’s backyard party, and pretend I’m totally into this day. Then the fireworks would start and I’d freak out. But only on the inside. On the outside, I’d act like a totally normal, carefree human enjoying this happy, happy day. I’d kindly excuse myself from the backyard, faking a headache, and quietly slip inside the house until the fireworks were over. See, anyone who has experienced war will tell you that fireworks, unsurprisingly, sound exactly like other, less festive kinds of explosions. No matter how many years have passed since the last time I heard actual grenades as a child during the war in Croatia, as soon as the fireworks show starts on the Fourth of July, I tense up. Fireworks give me anxiety, a feeling of uneasiness, an urge to run to the nearest basement. What is in my head is powerful.
Then, a few years ago, it finally hit me: instead of hiding inside, I need to look at what is actually in front of me. If I see the fireworks, maybe I can disconnect the sounds from the war and be present for what is really happening. And you know what? It works! Now when I hear fireworks starting, instead of running away from them, I run toward them. I immediately go outside, looking for them, so that I can see them for what they truly are. When we live inside the what-ifs and our memories of every bad thing that has happened in our past or every bad thing that could happen in the future, we miss the possibilities for joy and beauty. Though there is a lot we parents can worry about, if we’re willing to get out of our little dread-filled cocoon and keep our eyes wide open, we’ll find there’s actually more to celebrate than there is to fear.
There is one more complication to parenting from a place of fear: our children learn from watching how we live. What am I teaching my kids about fear when I let it have so much power in my life? Our kids sense our fear; they see our clenched jaws and sweat and will pick up on and mirror whatever energy we project. With my teenager Luka, in particular, I have often found myself approaching him to have a conversation consumed with worry before either of us has even opened our mouth. The negative, stressful tone this sets for our conversation is not only unfair to my child but also keeps me from enjoying motherhood. With fear leading the way, even the most ordinary interactions feel tense, heavy, and doomed.
My first step when I wrangle my persistent worry is to recognize that I won’t be able to just pray my fears away, the way my grandmother tried to do. There are things in life we can completely overcome and there are things we have to learn to live with, without letting them get the better of us. I have had to accept fear as part of my DNA, but I do not have to allow it to run the show. Taking control of my worry means first noticing when I’m worrying and then recognizing that worry is a feeling I’m experiencing and not objective reality. Learning how to be aware that worry is just a feeling has helped. What also helps is looking back at all the times I worried and was gripped by my fears and still chose to just walk through it. You know those bold, thrilling moments that make you feel alive and suddenly give everything meaning? Yeah, those moments don’t happen when fear is in charge.
Here’s what I’ve been working on lately: What if I choose to replace worry with hope? Not passive, head-in-the-clouds, fluff-type hope but real, active hope. Hope that is equipped with information, bolstered by common sense, and fueled by love. Hope that doesn’t allow negativity and fear to lead me. Hope that isn’t just a thirty-day trial with a great return policy but, instead, a lifetime commitment. Hope that is confident in the fact that I will do what I can for my family, for myself, for our future, and when I notice that I am worrying, I will choose to imagine not the worst-case scenario but the equally probable best-case scenario. And I will keep pushing forward, believing that in the end we will all be okay.
On successful days, I find myself walking toward my teenage son to have a serious conversation about something worrisome and the moment I feel that familiar anxiety fill my chest, I turn right around and walk away. Nope, you’re not approaching this conversation with fear, Kristina, I tell myself. Then I take a deep breath and think about how my grandmother would have wanted me to talk to my child. With hope. The same hope she always gave me. The same hope she gave even a wilting rose.
Ten
Recovering Pessimist
When my firstborn turned six months old, I decided that this milestone was definitely worth celebrating. And what started as a one-off event quickly became a family tradition: For my kids’ half birthdays I make half a cake (it looks like someone just cut a cake down the middle and made the other half disappear), and we sing every other syllable of the “Happy Birthday” song (I’m really good at complicating things, and singing only the first half of the song seemed unfair to the second half). We don’t do gifts or a big bash, and we don’t blow out candles and make wishes, because wishes should be made only full throttle. We just end the day with a little celebration after dinner, something kind of silly and fun. And cake. Because everything in life should end with sugar.
This little tradition brought so much joy to our family that I decided we should celebrate other random days, too. I wanted to make more of an effort to celebrate successes (big or small) but also to celebrate the not-so-fun-but-just-as-important moments in life. When a friend of ours lost his job because the company he worked for was downsizing, I asked him if we could throw him a party. With his enthusiastic consent, I sent out an Evite invitation for an “I Got Laid Off Party” to celebrate our friend’s new beginnings. If anyone else had ever been laid off, we would celebrate them, too. Getting fired usually means that you sit on your couch feeling crappy and panicking about the future alone. But how much nicer is it to deal with disappointment when you’re surrounded by friends who share stories about the times they were fired? And also cake. Obviously.