Anxious Mom Quotes

My mom always says I should never apologize for myself. Never say sorry for being good at something.

Even though nobody knew that you were in my life, you were the person who brought a raft at every rapid current and helped me cross that water safely. I was happy that you were there. I came to tell you I was able to travel through my life because I could come to you when I was anxious, not when I was happy.

This house is an embarrassment. This house is shameful. I hate this house. I hate how being inside it makes me feel tense and anxious.

It’s like, it’s like I have a different heart. The other girls have one kind of heart, and I have a different kind.” My mom was understandably confused. “Are you saying they’re mean?” “No . . . I don’t know.” Saying other kids were mean felt like I was saying I was more kind, which definitely wasn’t it—more anxious maybe, more sensitive. I guess all I was feeling was that I was different. Sometimes I’ll be at work or a party and get that same feeling. I am not like these people. I don’t know what I’m doing here. And it comforts me to know that I felt that way as a child, too. Maybe that should make me feel worse, but it makes me calm and resolved. I’ve been prepared to be an outsider most of my life.

And because the girls loved their mom, of course they did as she wanted, or at least pretended to, then did the exact opposite, because it's the duty of children not to pay the slightest bit of attention to their parents.

Advertising executives must be wringing their greedy hands over the prospect, anxious for their next holiday campaign. Mom is helpless before them all. We’re not a family anymore. We’re a commodity in an Amazon database. Are we humans, or consumers?

I'm afraid of everything and nothing.

His mom always said that policemen are just boys who never bothered to find a new dream. All boys get asked 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' and at some point almost all of them answer 'A policeman!' but most of them grow out of that and come up with something better.

The truth. There isn’t any. All we’ve managed to find out about the boundaries of the universe is that it hasn’t got any, and all we know about God is that we don’t know anything. So the only thing a mom who was a priest demanded of her family was simple: that we do our best. We plant an apple tree today, even if we know the world is going to be destroyed tomorrow. We save those we can.

Maternal stress during pregnancy has effects on the emotional and stress hormone reactions, particularly in female offspring. These effects were measured in goat kids. The stressed female kids ended up startling more easily and being less calm and more anxious than the male kids after birth. Furthermore, female kids who were stressed in utero showed a great deal more emotional distress than female kids who weren’t. So if you’re a girl about to enter the womb, plan to be born to an unstressed mom who has a calm, loving partner and family to support her. And if you are a mom-to-be carrying a female fetus, take it easy so that your daughter will be able to relax.

Addicts are good at lying, but never as good as their children. It's their sons and daughters who have to come up with excuses, never too outlandish or incredible, always mundane enough for no one to want to check them. An addict's child's homework never gets eaten by the dog, they just forgot their backpack at home. Their mom didn't miss parents' evening because she was kidnapped by ninjas, but because she had to work overtime. The child doesn't remember the name of the place she's working, it's only a temporary job. She does her best, Mom does, to support us now that Dad's gone, you know. You soon learn how to phrase things in such a way as to preclude any follow-up questions. You learn that the women in the welfare office can take you away from her if they find out she managed to set fire to your last apartment when she fell asleep with a cigarette in her hand, or if they find out she stole the Christmas ham from the supermarket. So you lie when the security guard comes, you take the ham off her, and confess: 'It was me who took it.' No one calls the police for a child, not when it's Christmas. So they let you go home with your mom, hungry but not alone.

I will let go of you now. You were my secret. You were in my life, someone whose presence would never be guessed by anyone who knew me. Even though nobody knew that you were in my life, you were the person who brought a raft at every rapid current and helped me cross that water safely. I was happy that you were there. I came to tell you that I was able to travel through my life because I could come to you when I was anxious, not when I was happy.

mom consisted of so much gin and tonic that they didn’t dare cremate her because of the risk of explosion,

When I got pregnant, the first thing my mom said to me was ‘Now you’ll have to learn to cry in the cupboard, Jules, because children get frightened if you cry in front of them.’ 

I'm afraid people will see me pretending to be normal.

His mom always said that policemen are just boys who never bothered to find a new dream.

Braque was used to this kind of crap; her mom had been a master choreographer of anxious micromanagement since Braque could remember.

sort of thing’s impossible to control, just like love. Because perhaps it’s true what they say, that up to a certain age a child loves you unconditionally and uncontrollably for one simple reason: you’re theirs. Your parents and siblings can love you for the rest of your life, too, for precisely the same reason. The truth. There isn’t any. All we’ve managed to find out about the boundaries of the universe is that it hasn’t got any, and all we know about God is that we don’t know anything. So the only thing a mom who was a priest demanded of her family was simple: that we do our best. We plant an apple tree today, even if we know the world is going to be destroyed tomorrow. We save those we can.

You aren't like your mom." "I am.But I don't want to be like that anymore,I want what I want." He turns to me again,his face anxious. "I told my father's friends that I'm studying at Berkeley next year.It worked.He's really,really angry with me,but it worked.You told me to go for his pride.You were right." "So." I'm cautious,hardly daring to believe. "You're moving to California?" "I have to." "Right." I swallow hard. "Because of your mom." "Because of you. I'll only be a twenty-minute train ride from your school,and I'll make the commute to see you every night.I'd take a commute ten times that just to be with you every night." His words are too perfect.It must be a misunderstanding,surely I'm misunderstanding- "You're the most incredible girl I've ever known.You're gorgeous and smart, and you make my laugh like no one else can.And I can talk to you. And I know after all this I don't deserve you,but what I'm trying to say is that I love you,Anna.Very much." I'm holding my breath.I can't talk,but my eyes are filling with tears. He takes it the wrong way. "Oh God.And I've mucked things up again,haven't I? I didn't mean to attack you like this.I mean I did but...all right." His voice cracks. "I'll leave.Or you can go down first,and then I'll come down,and I promise I'll never bother you again-" He starts to stand,but I grab his arm. "No!" His body freezes. "I'm so sorry," he says. "I never mean to hurt you." I trail my fingers across his cheek. He stays perfectly still for me. "Please stop apologizing,Etienne." "Say my name again," he whispers. I close my eyes and lean forward. "Etienne." He takes my hands into his.Those pefect hands,that fit mine just so. "Anna?" Our foreheads touch. "Yes?" "Will you please tell me you love me? I'm dying here." And then we're laughing.And them I'm in his arms,and we're kissing,at first quickly-to make up for lost time-and then slowly,because we have all the time in the world.And his lips are soft and honey sweet,and the careful, passionate way he moves them against my own says that he savors the way I taste,too. And in between kisses,I tell him I love him. Again and again and again.

DEEN: What about you? KIRAN: Hmm . . . seeing the future! KIRAN: I want to be able to see the future. DEEN: Feeling anxious about the future? KIRAN: Yeah. Always. KIRAN: Especially lately. DEEN: How’s your mom, btw? KIRAN: To be determined. KIRAN: It’s just a waiting game now. DEEN: OKAY I know my real answer now!!! DEEN: Healing powers. DEEN: Definitely healing powers. KIRAN: Heh KIRAN: You’re a good guy, Deen. DEEN: Only for you.

This house is an embarrassment. This house is shameful. I hate this house. I hate how being inside it makes me feel tense and anxious, and all week long I look forward to my three-hour escape into the land of testimonies and pine-scented tile cleaner.

If your head isn’t up to the job, your legs better be!” (It should be noted that when she died, the bank robber’s mom consisted of so much gin and tonic that they didn’t dare cremate her because of the risk of explosion, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have good advice to offer.)

Once her mom slurred in her ear: “Personality is just the sum of our experiences. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. So don’t you worry, my little princess, you won’t get your heart broken because you come from a broken home. You won’t grow up to be a romantic, because children from broken homes don’t believe in everlasting love.

She tried to be a good mom, even though she didn’t have an instruction manual. A good wife, a good employee, a good person. She was terrified of failing every second of every day,

So the only thing a mom who was a priest demanded of her family was simple: that we do our best. We plant an apple tree today, even if we know the world is going to be destroyed tomorrow.

She laughed at that, Jim's wife and Jack's mom, God, how she laughed. God, how they miss her. She's still the one who makes them more understanding toward each other, even though she's no longer here.

Their mom couldn’t help thinking that she and their dad had at least gotten something right, because the girls were capable of admitting when they were wrong, and of forgiving others when they got things wrong.

His mom realized, of course, that her son was shouting out of fear and concern, so she replied the way she often did: “Boats that stay in the harbor are safe, sweetheart, but that’s not what boats were built for.

When God took her anyway, Jack went into her bed, held her hand too hard in his, as if he were hoping she might wake up and tell him off. Then he whispered disconsolately: “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll take care of Dad.

And she made me laugh, out loud, out of nowhere, and you don't meet many people like that. I happened to mention that to my mom, and she said: 'You can't live long with the ones who are only beautiful, Jules. But the funny ones, oh, they last a lifetime!

if they find out she stole the Christmas ham from the supermarket. So you lie when the security guard comes, you take the ham off her, and confess: “It was me who took it.” No one calls the police for a child, not when it’s Christmas. So they let you go home with your mom, hungry but not alone.

They calm themselves quickly and effectively, reconnect easily with their mothers on their return, and rapidly resume playing while checking to make sure that their moms are still around. They seem confident that their mothers will be there if needed. Less resilient youngsters, however, are anxious and aggressive or detached and distant on their mothers’ return. The kids who can calm themselves usually have warmer, more responsive mothers, while the moms of the angry kids are unpredictable in their behavior and the moms of detached kids are colder and dismissive. In these simple studies of disconnection and reconnection, Bowlby saw love in action and began to code its patterns.

This house is an embarrassment. This house is shameful. I hate this house. I hate how being inside it makes me feel tense and anxious, and all week long I look forward to my three-hour escape into the land of testimonies and pine-scented tile cleaner. That’s why it’s so upsetting to me that my family can never get out the door on time, no matter how hard I try to make that happen.

The truth. There isn’t any. All we’ve managed to find out about the boundaries of the universe is that it hasn’t got any, and all we know about God is that we don’t know anything. So the only thing a mom who was a priest demanded of her family was simple: that we do our best. We plant an apple tree today, even if we know the world is going to be destroyed tomorrow. We save those we can.

Jack asked his mum one evening how she could bear to sit beside people when they were dying, in their final hours, without being able to save them. His mum kissed the top of his head and said: ‘How do you eat an elephant, sweetheart?’ He replied the way a child who’s heard the same joke a thousand times does: ‘One bit at a time, Mom.’ She laughed just as loudly, for the thousandth time, the way parents do. Then she held his hand tightly and said: ‘We can’t change the world, and a lot of the time we can’t even change people. No more than one bit at a time. So we do what we can to help whenever we get the chance, sweetheart. We save those we can. We do our best. Then we try to find a way to convince ourselves that that will just have to… be enough. So we can live with our failures without drowning.

The Princess with Two Kingdoms.” At first the mom felt annoyed, because she had spent their whole lives trying to persuade her daughters not to want to be princesses—she hoped they’d want to be warriors. And because the girls loved their mom, of course they did as she wanted, or at least pretended to, then did the exact opposite, because it’s the duty of children not to pay the slightest bit of attention to their parents.

In attunement, it is the infant who leads and the mother who follows. “Where their roles differ is in the timing of their responses,” writes John Bowlby, one of the century’s great psychiatric researchers. The infant initiates the interaction or withdraws from it according to his own rhythms, Bowlby found, while the “mother regulates her behaviour so that it meshes with his... Thus she lets him call the tune and by a skillful interweaving of her own responses with his creates a dialogue.” The tense or depressed mothering adult will not be able to accompany the infant into relaxed, happy spaces. He may also not fully pick up signs of the infant’s emotional distress, or may not be able to respond to them as effectively as he would wish. The ADD child’s difficulty reading social cues likely originates from her relationship cues not being read by the nurturing adult, who was distracted by stress. In the attunement interaction, not only does the mother follow the child, but she also permits the child to temporarily interrupt contact. When the interaction reaches a certain stage of intensity for the infant, he will look away to avoid an uncomfortably high level of arousal. Another interaction will then begin. A mother who is anxious may react with alarm when the infant breaks off contact, may try to stimulate him, to draw him back into the interaction. Then the infant’s nervous system is not allowed to “cool down,” and the attunement relationship is hampered. Infants whose caregivers were too stressed, for whatever reason, to give them the necessary attunement contact will grow up with a chronic tendency to feel alone with their emotions, to have a sense — rightly or wrongly — that no one can share how they feel, that no one can “understand.” Attunement is the quintessential component of a larger process, called attachment. Attachment is simply our need to be close to somebody. It represents the absolute need of the utterly and helplessly vulnerable human infant for secure closeness with at least one nourishing, protective and constantly available parenting figure. Essential for survival, the drive for attachment is part of the very nature of warm-blooded animals in infancy, especially. of mammals. In human beings, attachment is a driving force of behavior for longer than in any other animal. For most of us it is present throughout our lives, although we may transfer our attachment need from one person — our parent — to another — say, a spouse or even a child. We may also attempt to satisfy the lack of the human contact we crave by various other means, such as addictions, for example, or perhaps fanatical religiosity or the virtual reality of the Internet. Much of popular culture, from novels to movies to rock or country music, expresses nothing but the joys or the sorrows flowing from satisfactions or disappointments in our attachment relationships. Most parents extend to their children some mixture of loving and hurtful behavior, of wise parenting and unskillful, clumsy parenting. The proportions vary from family to family, from parent to parent. Those ADD children whose needs for warm parental contact are most frustrated grow up to be adults with the most severe cases of ADD. Already at only a few months of age, an infant will register by facial expression his dejection at the mother’s unconscious emotional withdrawal, despite the mother’s continued physical presence. “(The infant) takes delight in Mommy’s attention,” writes Stanley Greenspan, “and knows when that source of delight is missing. If Mom becomes preoccupied or distracted while playing with the baby, sadness or dismay settles in on the little face.

The next morning, I went over to pick them up. I’d spent the night thinking of more things I should tell them--everything about Chris I thought they needed to know. It was all too much. “I don’t know how to tell you everything,” I confessed to Bradley as he got into the car. I started to cry. “There’s so many things and we have such a short amount of time.” “Just being here is all we need,” he said. “I’m not an impersonator. I’m just here to feel Chris’s life--I feel him here with me right now.” Bradley put me at ease and I calmed down. Back at the house, he and Clint became almost like family. Little bits of their personality came out as well--and I saw a glimmer of Clint’s famous Dirty Harry character later on in the day when I had to leave to go to Bubba’s basketball game. They’d talked about coming with me--which frankly would have created an impossible circus. But I did give them the option. As they stood trying to make up their minds, I snapped into anxious mom mode. “All right,” I told them both. “You’re welcome to come. But if you’re coming, we’re leaving now.” I guess my tone was a little too strident. “So you want to get tough with me, huh, lady?” said Clint in his best Dirty Harry voice as he raised his eyebrow. It’s amazing how threatening a simple facial tic can be. I left them home to study some of Chris’s replica guns and gear. Our own already had its ample share of lawmen.

The experiment is called the Strange Situation, and you can see variations of it on the Internet. A mother and her toddler are in an unfamiliar room. A few minutes later, a researcher enters and the mother exits, leaving the youngster alone or with the researcher. Three minutes later, the mother comes back. Most children are initially upset at their mother’s departure; they cry, throw toys, or rock back and forth. But three distinct patterns of behavior emerge when mother and child are reunited—and these patterns are dictated by the type of emotional connection that has developed between the two. Children who are resilient, calm themselves quickly, easily reconnect with their moms, and resume exploratory play usually have warm and responsive mothers. Youngsters who stay upset and nervous and turn hostile, demanding, and clingy when their moms return tend to have mothers who are emotionally inconsistent, blowing sometimes hot, sometimes cold. A third group of children, who evince no pleasure, distress, or anger and remain distant and detached from their mothers, are apt to have moms who are cold and dismissive. Bowlby and Ainsworth labeled the children’s strategies for dealing with emotions in relationships, or attachment styles, secure, anxious, and avoidant, respectively.

Alan, as per his usual routine, got up early and peeked into my rom to check on me. What he found were his teenage stepdaughter and her childhood sweetheart curled up in the same bed, sound asleep and draped all over each other. He hissed my name, alarmed: "Jenna!" "Wha-?" I sat straight up, immediately aware of what was happening and how it all looked. I clambered over Cameron, who was just coming to consciousness, and followed Alan into the kitchen. "It's nothing, I swear," I said in a whisper. If Mom wasn't up yet, I wanted to keep it that way. Alan shook his head. "It looks bad." He glanced toward my bedroom. "Was that Ethan? Tell him to come out here. I want to talk to him." "Um, it's not Ethan. It's Cameron." He put his hands to his head. "Jenna. Jenna." "I know. Is Mom awake?" "Not yet." I kept my voice low. "Can we talk by the fish tank?" He led, I followed. "He came to my window in the night," I explained. "He needed to talk. I let him in. It was me. It was my idea. It was all...nothing happened." "This isn't my area," Alan said, looking at the fish. "Your mom is supposed to do the tough stuff. We have a policy of laissez-faire when it comes to me and...this kind of thing." "Exactly. So," I said hopefully, "go make the coffee and we'll pretend nothing every happened." Cameron came into the room, his blanket wrapped around him. His hair was sticking up in the back, and his long eyelashes hooded sleepy eyes. "I just needed to talk to someone," he said to Alan. "Guess we fell asleep." "Uh-huh." Alan cast an anxious glance toward his and mom's bedroom and said, "You couldn't talk in the kitchen?" "We didn't think about it," I said. "That's how innocent it was, see?" Alan stared at us, still shaking his head. "Look, Cameron, just get out of here before Jenna's mom sees you. Okay?" He nodded. "I'll go get my boots." I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Alan." When Cameron shut my bedroom door, Alan said, "Jenna. This is the kind of situation that's very, very awkward, to say the least. If your mom were to find out, I would be in scalding hot water." "She won't. Thank you thank you thank you." "Now. I need my coffee." He shuffled off to the kitchen, ankles cracking. "I'm too old for this." Back in my room, I watched Cameron get ready to go, thinking about everything we'd talked about and what it meant. "Where do you live?" I asked. "I'll take you home." "I share a studio apartment with three other guys. It's a dump," he said, lacing up his boots. "How come you were sleeping in my car yesterday?" "Sometimes I don't want to be there." He pulled on his jacket. "I'll go straight to school, shower in the locker room. See you later." He started to open the window. "Wait," I said. "You can use the front door, you know. Just be quiet." "Okay." He paused on his way out of my room, looing back once to say, "Thanks.

Elisabeth Elliot emphasizes why it’s hard to capture thoughts: “The taking of captives is not a gentle business. They don’t want to come.”[2] In other words, we have to expect a fight as we change our thought patterns. We need to show up dressed for battle, not with our yoga pants around our ankles.

When our children are struggling with separation anxiety, we give them reasons to have peace. When we, God's children, feel anxious that we are separated from him, he gives us indomitable cause to feel his peace.

this is more than an intellectual process. Repetition compulsion is a formidable beast. For Charlotte, stability and its attendant joy isn’t to be trusted; it makes her feel queasy, anxious. When you’re a child and your father is loving and playful, then disappears for a while, and later comes back and acts as if nothing happened—and does this repeatedly—you learn that joy is fickle. When your mother emerges from her depression and suddenly seems interested in your days and acts the way you see other kids’ moms acting, you don’t dare feel joy because you know from experience that it will all go away. And it does. Every single time. Better to expect nothing too stable.

Well… I’m glad to have you on board.  Hey, maybe you’ll count as my first Pokémon. (I can definitely find ways to electrocute you…) Day 1 – Morning “There you go, it’s finally installed on your phone,” mom said to me, “I really don’t know why you’re jumping up and down over this.  It’s as if it was your birthday AND Christmas combined!” Mom’s right, I don’t think I’ve been so anxious to get my hands on a game since Pokémon Sun.

Mom is mostly interested in my life inasmuch as it affects her own. Fact is, despite her selfishness, or maybe even because or it, I can always ask Mom for help in a pinch. She seems to get on some kind of high fueled by maternal hormones and self-importance whenever I'm in extremis. Suddenly, she develops an in-depth interest in my life, feeding of the drama like a soap opera junkie anxious for the next installment. My breakups, heartbreaks, and financial crises give her something to talk about with her friends, especially her role as glorified rescuer of the distressed. Inevitably, whenever I emerge from a crisis and get my life back to normal, dear Mom lapses back into her routine lack of interest.

Young children with anxiety often respond well to visual sequences of events. Small pictures of daily events may be drawn out on felt, and arranged on a larger piece of felt. Children and parents can arrange the felt pictures in an order of events, displaying what will happen for that day or the next day. Children who seem to expect abandonment can see that in the morning Mom is there, or see and talk about what it feels like when Mom picks them up at day care. A difficulty common with younger, anxious children is that they tend to stop processing information when they come to the part of a daily sequencing that involves separation. This visual aid helps them to get to the other side of the sequence in which there is reunion. This is a good aid for children with permanent auditory processing problems or emotionally produced auditory processing problems.

He was in his late thirties maybe, tall and slim with pale blond hair, ruddy cheeks, and the kind of translucent Scandinavian skin that would burn instantly in the sun. His face was all interesting angles and cleft chin, creating the overall impression that he should be modeling parkas in an L.L.Bean catalog. The suit was neither particularly nice nor particularly shabby, but I recognized a familiar lump near his armpit—a shoulder holster. I was immediately wary. “Good evening, Miss Luther,” the man said, pleasantly enough. “I’m Detective Quinn with Boulder PD.” His hazel eyes pierced mine as he held out his hand, very close to mine so I wouldn’t have to work hard to reach it. His handshake was extremely gentle—not weak, exactly, but more like he feared my fingers might crumple to dust. “I’d like to speak to you about the incident at your work.” “Now?” I asked, a little incredulous. I had expected the cops to turn up with questions, particularly since Mom had warned me, but it seemed awfully late. Visiting hours had been over for a while. Quinn nodded. “As you might imagine, we’re very anxious to pursue the couple who kidnapped your niece.

Open your eyes Harper.” The first thing I saw was his anxious expression in the mirror. He was worrying his lip waiting for my reaction. I inhaled quickly and his body locked up when I looked down to my left side. It was beautiful. There were four large orange lilies wrapped around my hip, and I couldn’t believe how amazing they looked. I stepped closer and took in the perfect shading and detail to each flower. From the sketches I’d looked at and his drawing of me, I had known Chase was amazing, but I’d never thought he could make something like this look so real. His forced swallow was audible, and I realized I still hadn’t said anything. But there were absolutely no words. First my ring, and now this? Did anything get past him? I turned to face him and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Please tell me what you’re thinking.” Unfortunately, I wasn’t. I crushed my mouth to his and he quickly deepened the kiss. Right away the other tattoo artists started hooting and yelling for us to get a room. I pulled back and knew there was nothing I could do about the deep blush on my face. Chase led me back to his table and put ointment and a wrap over my tattoo before fixing my shirt, he was all smiles. “What made you choose those?” He beamed his white smile at me, “I heard you talking to Bree and Mom about them being your favorite. And ever since that day all I’ve wanted to do was get you orange lilies, but I knew I’d probably get punched again. This was my way around it.” “It looks amazing Chase, thank you.” He shrugged, but he still couldn’t contain that smile. “I’m serious.” I grabbed his face with both hands and brought him close, “I love it, thank you.” Chase kissed me once and skimmed his nose across my cheek. “God, you’re beautiful Harper.” My phone rang then, Brandon’s name flashed on the screen. “Hey babe.” “Hey, how’s the tattoo look?” “Um, it’s not done yet, can I call you after?” “I’m going out with some buddies from high school, I’ll just talk to you tomorrow, kay? But send me a picture when it’s done. I love you.” My stomach clenched, “I love you too. Have fun tonight.” I pressed the end button and looked up at Chase’s closed off expression. “Chase –” “So you’ll need to go buy some anti-bacterial soap to clean it.” “Please talk to me.” “I’m trying. Look, here are some aftercare instructions. Don’t take the wrap off for at least an hour. If anything looks wrong give me a call.” He dropped the paper on my stomach and stepped back. “Chase!” “I have another appointment, and he’s waiting. I’ll see you later.” I looked into his guarded eyes and exhaled deeply, “What do I owe you?” “Nothing. It was a gift. But I’m busy, please go.

How did I prepare for night shifts? When I was a small, anxious kid, I checked my mom in her sleep to make sure she was still breathing.

When you sow the word, the enemy hears your prayers also. He knows what you’re asking for and he likes to play games by sending decoys. Our anxious impatience blinds us and that is when we mistake the enemy’s decoy for the Lord’s harvest. Just like Abram’s impatience for the child God promised him, you may not know when God will do what He promises. You don’t have to know. Just as you don’t have to know how the seed grows beneath the surface. You just have to have faith that God said so and it is.

I have two sons. Jude is five, with dark, curly hair. He looks just like his mom. Moses is two, with bright eyes and a wide smile. I love watching my boys play together. They are never anxious. Never depressed. But every once in a while, they wake up in the middle of the night scared. Sometimes it’s a bad dream. Other times it’s a monster in the closet (that turns out to be a blanket). You know the drill. When they wake up crying, all they need to calm down is a minute or two in my arms. Once they feel that security—that safety, the fact that dad is present—they are fine. The implications are obvious. Jesus calls us to have faith like a child. I wonder if that means we need to trust God like my sons trust me. To climb up into his arms, take a deep breath, and know we are safe, as long as we are with him. I sleep much better these days. It still takes me a while to fall asleep at times. Like my boys, I still wake up with fears, concerns, thoughts that are out of control. My heart still picks up pace. My mind begins to race. But I’m learning to call out to God, to remember my place, and to take my thoughts captive. I’m learning to take a deep breath, to dwell on his scriptures, and to learn from my boys. After all, when was the last time you met a stressed-out five year old? I don’t think they exist. When was the last time you met a stressed-out child of God? They are all over the place.

Letting go is hard for me. I have spent too many anxious moments and sleepless nights in worry over what would happen if I let go. Much like being part of a search-and-rescue effort, I would find myself always searching for the unexpected spins in life while preparing to rescue the outcome.

I have real feelings for you, Reagan,” I say quietly. “I can’t explain them. And I don’t want to. But don’t try to push what happened between us tonight off as common. Because it wasn’t. It was big. And I want to keep doing it. I want to learn all about you and have you learn all about me. I want you to meet my family. I want to go on a date with you.” I look around. “This place is nice, but…seriously?” She laughs. “You want me to meet your family?” she asks. “If you think you can stand it. There are five of us. All men.” “I’m not afraid of men in general,” she explains. “Just the ones that touch you.” I run my crooked finger along her cheekbone, and she turns into my hand to kiss my palm. “Your brothers look like you,” she says. “How do you know that?” I ask. “I saw them when you got out of prison,” she says quietly. “You were there?” She nods. “My dad made me sit in the truck while he talked to you about camp.” She draws her lower lip between her teeth and bites down like she’s anxious about my response. “Sorry. I should have told you sooner.” She groans. “I kind of asked for you to be here. So I could see you.” “I’m glad you did.” Never been happier about anything. “Your brothers all have tattoos, too,” she says. She looks at the tattoo on my arm that’s for my mom. She picks up my hand and traces the tats that go up my forearm to my sleeve. “I want to look at all of them so I can find out what makes you tick.” She draws a circle around the American flag. “That one’s for my buddy who died in Afghanistan.” Her silky fingertips slide up the dragon on my inner arm. “And this one?” she asks softly. “That one was a little too much courage one night,” I say with a laugh.

A teenage girl told me recently that she felt closer to her mom when she had panic attacks than any other time, so “maybe I let myself get really anxious because that’s the time she’s most nurturing to me.

As the next page loaded with another set of 25 emails, his eyes were drawn to the bottom of the screen, where for the first time previously-read messages stood out beneath the bold-type unread ones.  There was something powerfully sentimental, almost tangible, about the realization that his dad had sat before a computer somewhere ten years earlier and had clicked on these same messages.  The most recent one, received just hours before his parents’ death, was from his mom with the subject line, “re: Li’l Ryan’s Bday”. With a lump developing in his throat, he clicked on the message.  His mom had written: “That’s something dads should talk to their sons about ;)”  Hmm.  Didn’t make sense without context. Below the end of the message he found the option to “show quoted text,”  which he clicked on to reveal the entire exchange in reverse chronological order.  She had been responding to his dad’s message: “I’m sure he’ll get it.  I like the idea, but you better be prepared to have a discussion about the birds and bees.  You know how his mind works.  He’ll want to know how that baby got in there.” Ryan’s palms grew sweaty as he began to infer what was coming next.  Not entirely sure he wanted to continue, but certain he couldn’t stop, he scrolled to the end. The thread had started with his mother’s message, “I’m already showing big-time.  Sweaters only get so baggy, and it’s going to be warming up soon.  I think tonight would be the perfect time to tell Ryan.  I wrapped up a T-shirt for him in one of his presents that says ‘Big Brother’ on it.  A birthday surprise!  You think he’ll get it?” Having trouble taking in a deep breath, he rose to a stand and slowly backed away from his computer.  It wasn’t his nature to ask fate “Why?” or to dwell on whether or not something was “fair.”  But this was utterly overwhelming – a knife wound on top of an old scar that had never sufficiently healed. ~~~ Corbett Hermanson peered around the edge of Bradford’s half-open door and knocked gently on the frame.  Bradford was sitting at his desk, leafing through a thick binder.  He had to have heard the knock, Corbett thought, peeking in, but his attention to the material in the binder remained unbroken. Now regretting his timid first knock, Corbett anxiously debated whether he should knock again, which could be perceived as rude, or try something else to get Bradford’s attention.  Ultimately he decided to clear his throat loudly, while standing more prominently in the doorway. Still, Bradford kept his nose buried in the files in front of him. Finally, Corbett knocked more confidently on the door itself. “What!” Bradford demanded.  “If you’ve got something to say, just say it!” “Sorry, sir.  Wasn’t sure you heard me,” Corbett said, with a nervous chuckle. “Do you think I’m deaf and blind?” Bradford sneered.  “Just get on with it already.” “Well sir, I’m sure you recall our conversation a few days back about the potential unauthorized user in our system?  It turns out...” “Close the door!” Bradford whispered emphatically, waving his arms wildly for Corbett to stop talking and come all the way into his office. “Sorry, sir,” Corbett said, his cheeks glowing an orange-red hue to match his hair.  After self-consciously closing the door behind him, he picked up where he’d left off.  “It turns out, he’s quite good at keeping himself hidden.  I was right about his not being in Indiana, but behind that location, his IP address bounces

I was first introduced to Clint’s writing in his 2014 New York Times essay: “Getting Up in the Night Is Your Wife’s Job.” Briefly, in this essay, Clint and his wife Mel are new parents, both working, exhausted and juggling the new adjustments of being parents of an infant. In a conversation between Clint and his mother, when Clint shared that he was waking up in the middle of the night to care for their infant son, his mother imposed judgment on Mel. She said that getting up in the night was his wife’s job. And initially, Clint took in his mom’s belief for a moment. Then he paused, reflected, and shared with incredible vulnerability: He gets up in the middle of the night to care for his child in reaction to the pain and abandonment he felt in childhood from his father. For Clint, getting up in the middle of the night to care for his child was an act of love, and healing, embracing what it meant for him to be a father and supportive husband. I observed, caring for his son was a drive to heal from his father’s actions and inactions.

I asked him if work was part of the reason he left us. He says he left because he was depressed and anxious and mistakenly believed he could run away from those problems. It sounds like a stock answer, Mom. Like what his media-relations person told him to say. I asked him the same question again. Because he left EVERYTHING in his world behind but work. He must really love his job, right? He said that his identity as a man was all caught up in his work. That’s what he told me this morning. I went to diving practice with that in my head. It wasn’t a good headspace. I kept thinking, his identity as a man. What the hell does that mean? I know a bunch of other dads, and I would say that they all have being a dad at the top of their list of identities.

Sometimes, when I talk to anxious parents, I get the impression they’ve misunderstood what I mean by grit. I tell them that half of grit is perseverance—in response, I get appreciative head nods—but I also tell them that nobody works doggedly on something they don’t find intrinsically interesting. Here, heads often stop nodding and, instead, cock to the side. “Just because you love something doesn’t mean you’ll be great,” says self-proclaimed Tiger Mom Amy Chua. “Not if you don’t work. Most people stink at the things they love.” I couldn’t agree more. Even in the development of your interests, there is work—practicing, studying, learning—to be done. Still, my point is that most people stink even more at what they don’t love.

If we didn’t put so much pressure on our children to accomplish what they were never intended to, I think we’d enjoy them a lot more.

skinned knees Father’s Day library books thrift store sneakers popular girls SAT tests Rachel memorial arrangements long days anxious nights shark’s teeth spreadsheets promises kept and broken red dirt orange skies black oceans pointless deserts childhood lakes hot winds dying denying blistering burning seething wringing Lewis Mom “Stop.

When Parker first started separating the young monkeys from their moms, she predicted that the early life stress would lead to emotional instability. But instead, the stress led to resilience. As they grew up, the monkeys who had experienced early life stress were less anxious than the more sheltered monkeys. They explored more in new environments and showed greater curiosity toward new objects—a young monkey’s version of courage. They were quicker to solve new mental challenges that the experimenters gave them. As juveniles—the equivalent of teenagers—the previously stressed monkeys even showed greater self-control. All of these effects lasted into adulthood. The early life stress had set the young monkeys on

I started asking myself 'What am I doing?' a few years ago when I was about 43 years old. It felt like some sort of midlife crisis at first. My wife and I had moved to another country five years before, and I wasn't quite happy with my life there. It never felt like 'home', I never belonged there. Objectively speaking, my career was going well and I was making good money. But I didn't care about the job I had, I was going through the motions. It felt off, and it was making me feel anxious about the future. I lost my mom to cancer when she was 47 years old. In my mind, that could be my fate too. What if I only had four more years? Am I wasting the time I have left?

What I offer here is my story: think of me as part of your mom tribe, a friend that is talking to you on a more personal level. Maybe my story is relatable to you and can help you in different ways.

This house is an embarrassment. This house is shameful. I hate this house. I hate how being inside it makes me feel tense and anxious,

We put undue pressure on our kids to keep us happy (or at least to behave well so we can pretend to be happy). But this expectation is misaligned. The truth is, if we are living by emotions that are based on circumstances, we will inevitably be disappointed. If we didn’t put so much pressure on our children to accomplish what they were never intended to, I think we’d enjoy them a lot more.

I will let go of you now. You were my secret. You were in my life, someone whose presence would never be guessed by anyone who knew me. Even though nobody knew that you were in my life, you were the person who brought me a raft for every rapid current and helped me cross that water safely. I was happy that you were there. I came to tell you that I was able to travel through my life because I could come to you when I was anxious, not when I was happy. I am going to go now.

Acting and reacting to the responses we received from our family, caregivers, and siblings, we began to play that role, for better or for worse. Our role as a child might have been “outgoing” or “fearful” or “smart.” The roles we play expand as we grow up, and we take on new roles as “mom” or “teacher” or “anxious.” These roles are integrated into our understanding of ourselves.

I want to be excited for the life God has for me—even if it includes blowout diapers, too-loud dinners, and a lack of massages.

All of us kids walked home for lunch, anxious to see our moms and grandmas. Lunch would be waiting and the television, which I so loved, was always set to “The Tennessee Ernie Ford Show.” When he signed off with “God bless your pea-picking hearts!” I was out the door and back to my friends for the walk back to school. A better place to raise a family could never have been found. The milkman delivered quite a few quart glass bottles with the cream for coffee floating on top. A Wonder Bread delivery man lived next door. He delivered only to stores, but would bring us cute miniature loaves of bread once in a while. The scissors and knife sharpener man made his rounds. Grandma loved to work with sharp scissors and admonished us, “Don’t ever cut paper with my shears, it dulls the blades.” I felt sorry for the poor Fuller Brush man since my Mom never would buy anything, but she’d take the free samples. Maybe he just liked talking to my Mom who loved to talk. My favorite was the Good Humor ice cream truck, of course.

Step by step instructions to Introduce Sex Toys In The Bedroom Since Fifty Shades of Gray is so mainstream, the majority of the media is discussing sex and sex toys. It is safe to say that you are interested about attempting them however are excessively humiliated? Is it accurate to say that you are uncertain whether they are directly for you and your relationship? Coming up next are some normal misguided judgments about grown-up toys: A great many people don't utilize sex toys Wrong! Numerous good individuals utilize grown-up toys, including individuals most would think about superbly ordinary. Utilizing a grown-up toy doesn't make you "odd" or doesn't utter a word negative about your relationship. It just encourages you have a ton of fun progressively fun in the room! You don't need to impart to your companions, your supervisor or your mom that you utilize toys except if anybody except if you need to. Sex toys are only for masturbation. While grown-up toys are normally utilized for masturbation, numerous couples appreciate utilizing toys together, regardless of whether they are female or male or hetero or gay. Normally these couples are happy with attempting new things together, are liberal, and trusting. Your accomplice will feel lacking on the off chance that you begin utilizing a sex toy. Is it true that you are anxious that in the event that you carry a grown-up toy into the room, it will offend your partner? A grown-up toy can give you a climax, yet it can't disclose to you the amount they cherish you or rub your back. An item is certifiably not a substitute for a genuine individual. On the off chance that your sweetheart has this dread, be touchy and stroke his or her sense of self a smidgen. Similarly as with most relationship issues, great openness is of the utmost importance. Utilizing sex toys can be physically perilous. No chance! Indeed, grown-up toys can have beneficial outcomes on your sexual wellbeing. For instance, numerous specialists and advisors prescribe grown-up toys to ladies who experience difficulty arriving at climax; on the off chance that you experience the ill effects of agonizing sex, vibrators can invigorate blood stream; all ladies can profit by kegel exercisers or kegel balls to condition the pelvic floor muscles; prostate massagers decrease the danger of prostate disease, erectile brokenness and successive evening pee. Ultimately, climaxes help you live more, square torment and, some state, look more youthful. Who wouldn't need that? On the off chance that you use sex toys excessively, you won't have a climax with your accomplice. On the off chance that your accomplice is apprehensive you'll supplant the person in question with your preferred toy, guarantee the person in question that you'll generally keep things diverse in the room: attempt various positions, new toys, light subjugation and dream play.

Obedience comes through the seeds of discipline, which are planted by faithful mamas who tirelessly tend to them.

Visible results are not the measure of your success. Heart change happens on the inside, one tiny step at a time.

We must be faithful to put God’s Word into our hearts and to trust that God will be faithful to use it in our lives.

Want to stop feeling depleted, anxious, and unsatisfied in times of crisis? Want to find the best solution to your problems? The secret to living your best life is to focus on your strengths, not weaknesses. You aren't selfish to recharge before giving your best to your family. You don't have to be perfect to be happy.

Then the police come. My mom is apprehensive of the police being there, because it’s no secret that black and brown people are not trusting of the police. They make us feel anxious, like we have something to prove. My mom doesn’t want to bring that energy into our apartment. She doesn’t want that energy to affect Peta, most importantly. She doesn’t want that thought process and that anxiousness to overwork him. So she is going back and forth with the police and bickering with them. But eventually she gives up when they threaten to arrest her for not allowing them on her property. And so eight or nine police officers crowd into our tiny apartment. They are standing over me, watching me apply pressure to Peta, not providing any assistance. (It’s Chicago; they could have been doing something way more important.)

The people who choose to not accept your boundaries and requirements will leave your life, and you won’t feel anxious for the loss because you’ve developed some abundance in your life. If your surrogate “mom” abandons you, you can replace her with someone better.

My mom always used to say that you never feel older—that you’re the same person you were when you were younger—and I never used to believe her. But sometimes I swear I was just in high school, an anxious girl with a permanent stomachache who, embarrassingly enough, wanted people to like her more than she liked herself.

Picture an overwhelmed, anxious fifteen-year-old. How do you think being told “anxiety is a belief issue”8 would affect her? Because that’s what she would read in Lies Young Women Believe, and our already anxious girl might wonder if she has failed God. That same girl might hear something similar watching “5 Tips for Overcoming Crazy Girl Emotions” on the Girl Defined YouTube channel, run by Bethany Beal and Kristen Clark. In their video, Beal and Clark explain: “If our hearts and thoughts are in a godly place, our emotions will be peaceful. . . . Our emotions are a reflection of what’s going on in our hearts. . . . Our emotions are a dictator of where our heart is.” Listing the fruits of the Spirit, they conclude, “[The fruits of the Spirit] result in awesome emotions. If that’s what’s on the inside, the emotions will be stable on the outside, not like a hurricane. The opposites of the fruits of the Spirit are things like anger, anxiety, worry, things the Bible actually calls sin.”9 Read the Prophets, though, and you won’t exactly see accounts of people who were emotionally placid—but you will see a lot of hurricanes of emotion. Hearing that we need to take every thought captive and confront our depression and worry and focus on gratitude may work wonderfully for the stressed-out thirty-five-year-old who gets a bit grumpy sometimes. But for the fifteen-year-old who feels isolated and alone and wonders how she can get up in the morning? When you’re dealing with all-or-nothing thinking, this advice, when not paired with an acknowledgment of how deep and debilitating depression can be, can cause shame, as we’ve heard from these mothers: • “My daughter asked to stop going to church because of the predominant views taught in youth group about mental health (all depression/anxiety is a spiritual problem). She loves Jesus and seeks to know God/understand how she was made by him uniquely and perfectly. To be told she isn’t yielding to God or knowing who she is in Christ as a result of autism and related anxiety was as un-Christlike as it comes. I stay home on Sundays with her now.” • “My children were told during a chapel service at their Christian school that it was a sin against God to feel anxious or depressed. One of them was in therapy at the time for issues that were in part aggravated by the school environment. My children are no longer at that school.” These moms protected their kids. But it’s an embarrassment to the gospel that our Christian spaces can be so cold and unfeeling toward those in our midst who need the most compassion.