
Motherhood Anxiety
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Time to read 6 min
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Time to read 6 min
You were told motherhood would be beautiful—and it is.
But no one warned you how heavy it would feel sometimes.
The ache. The vigilance. The sleepless mental loops that start with “Is something wrong?” and spiral quickly into “Will they be okay?”
We don’t just worry about scraped knees or school grades. We worry about their choices—the ones they’re making now, and the ones they might make one day.
We worry about what happens when they step out the door and into a world we can’t control.
We worry about the friendships that wound them, the teachers who misread them, the systems that fail them, the nights they don’t tell us what’s really wrong.
We worry about their bodies and their hearts. About their health, their sadness, their safety.
This isn’t weakness.
This is love—raw and holy.
This is what it means to care so deeply your whole nervous system rises up in response.
All it takes is a suggestion—
“We’re keeping an eye on his development,”
“She seemed withdrawn today,”
“This might be something to monitor…”
—and suddenly, you’re no longer in the room. You’re in the future. In panic. In worst-case scenarios.
Your heart races. Your stomach knots. A tsunami of fear grips you.
You want to be calm. You want to stay grounded. But it’s like something ancient and primal takes over—the part of you that would throw yourself in front of a moving train to protect your child. The part of you that stays up all night reading articles, whispering prayers, wondering if this phase is a detour or a warning sign.
If you’ve ever felt ashamed for spiralling, for overreacting, for feeling too much—pause.
Breathe.
You are not crazy. You are not failing.
You are a mother.
Anxiety is what happens when love is combined with responsibility and uncertainty. It’s not because you don’t trust God. It’s not because you’re not spiritual enough. It’s because your child matters more to you than your own life.
And research supports what mothers have always known in their bones: maternal anxiety is real. According to a 2021 study in the Journal of Affective Disorders, mothers of young children report significantly higher rates of anxiety than the general population—especially when they feel they must meet every need, prevent every hurt, and never fall short.
Motherhood lights up the parts of the brain that detect threat. Evolution gifted us that vigilance—but in a world saturated with information, comparison, and fear, that gift can feel like a curse.
This doesn’t mean you must live in fear. It means you deserve support—not shame.
You deserve sacred practices that restore your nervous system and remind you: you are not alone.
The Divine Feminine knows this weight.
She is the Mother of all mothers—the one who watched her child suffer, the one who stood at the cross, the one who stayed when others fled.
She doesn’t shame your anxiety. She doesn’t demand peace before the storm has passed.
She wraps herself around you when your thoughts are racing, when your throat tightens, when you feel helpless to shield your child from what you cannot control.
Her message is not, “Don’t worry.”
Her message is, “You are not alone in this.”
One of the quiet revolutions of motherhood today is this: we are beginning to look back. We are reflecting on our own childhoods in ways generations before us never had the tools—or the permission—to explore.
We may start to see—often for the first time—what we didn’t receive.
The tenderness we lacked. The emotional safety we longed for. The freedom to cry, to be fully known, to be fully loved.
And when our child hurts, that unhealed part of us awakens.
We ache for them. But sometimes, we’re also aching for the little one inside us who didn’t get what they needed either.
This isn’t wrong. It’s part of healing.
But it also calls us to pause and remember:
Your child is not your inner child.
They are not as fragile as your fear would have you believe.
They are their own person, with their own path, their own strength, and their own connection to the Divine.
They are not alone.
They are guided.
And so are you.
You will not get everything right. You cannot shield them from all harm.
They will make choices that scare you.
They will face pain you cannot prevent.
But that doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
It means you are human. And they are here to grow.
You are not the author of their soul.
They belong not to your fear—but to the Divine.
And that Divine presence surrounds them always—through heartbreak, through healing, through every unknown chapter still ahead.
There is something bigger at work in your child’s life than your worry.
There is light in them.
There is grace surrounding them.
There is strength you cannot yet see, that will rise in them when they need it most.
Your job?
To stay close.
To stay steady.
To trust.
We dive deeper into Anxiety in our article Feminine Anxiety: When the World Feels Too Much, How the Divine Feminine Can Hold You.
In Christian tradition, no woman embodies the mystery and ache of motherhood like Mary.
She carried what she could not fully understand.
She watched her son be misunderstood, dismissed, even harmed.
She stood at the cross, unable to protect—but refusing to look away.
She teaches us that love doesn’t mean control.
It means presence.
It means showing up with a brave, open heart—even when the outcome is uncertain.
You don’t have to be perfect to be faithful.
You just have to keep loving.
Remember... you are not failing.
You are not alone.
And your love is enough—even when it’s trembling.
Let the Divine Mother meet you in the worry.
Let Mary remind you that motherhood is sacred not because it is easy—but because it is full of love, of waiting, of watching, and of holding space.
Divine Mother,
You know the ache of watching your child suffer,
the weight of loving them so deeply it hurts.
You know the sleepless nights,
the fearful thoughts,
the tender ache that never fully goes away.
Hold me when I spiral.
Anchor me when I lose my footing.
Remind me that my love is not the only thing holding my child—
You are holding them too.
When fear rises like a tide,
still my breath,
quiet my mind,
and place peace where panic has tried to take root.
Help me trust that they will be okay.
That I will be okay.
That no matter what happens,
love will lead us through.
They are Your child, too.
Cherished.
Seen.
Held.
Let them feel that love through me.
And, let my steadiness become their sanctuary.
Amen.
With love and grace,
Rose Blessings
This journal is more than pages; it's a warm embrace-a place to explore, heal, and grow with love, intention, and the grace of Mary's enduring presence.
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