Anxious but Anchored: Learning to Mother with Mindfulness

I’ve always had anxiety. Not the kind that’s just a little nervous before a big event, but the kind that hums under the surface on an ordinary Tuesday. The kind that sees a million worst-case scenarios in the blink of an eye. I learned to live with it—mostly. With years of counseling. But then I became a mom, and suddenly the volume got turned way up. Like next level loud.

It wasn’t just me anymore. Now, there was this tiny human depending on me—for everything. Her safety, her joy, her nourishment, her sense of self. The weight of that is beautiful and brutal all at once. Every decision feels heavier, every risk more terrifying. Even the mundane moments come with mental static: Did I say the right thing? Was I too distracted? Did I mess that up?

Add to that my social anxiety—the overthinking before and after conversations, the fear of being misunderstood, the exhaustion that comes from simply being around people—and it can feel like I’m juggling a million invisible weights while trying to look like I’m keeping it together. Some days, just showing up in the world feels like a full-time job.

And then there’s the anxiety about Lowen’s health. Every cough, every bump, every weird rash sends my brain racing down the rabbit hole. I know most of it is probably nothing—but what if it’s not? I go from “she’s fine” to “what if this is serious?” in two seconds flat. It’s a fear that sits in my chest, quiet some days and loud others. I think every mom carries it in some form, but when you’re already wired for worry, it can feel all-consuming.

But maybe the hardest part is the fear of over-parenting. Of loving her so much that I accidentally smother her freedom. I want to protect her from everything—but I also want her to be wild and brave and unafraid. I see her fierce, fearless little spirit and I never want to be the reason she dims her light. It’s a tightrope walk: shielding her without stifling her. Guiding her without gripping too tightly.

And the kicker? Toddlers live completely in the present. They’re not worried about next week’s schedule or replaying yesterday’s missteps. They just are. Right here, right now. Watching ants crawl on the sidewalk. Laughing uncontrollably at something silly. Crying because the snack is all gone. It’s wild and raw and real—and honestly, it’s what I crave. That kind of grounded presence. But for me, being present doesn’t come naturally. It’s something I have to choose. Over and over again.

Some days I nail it. We have slow mornings, make a yummy breakfast together, do messy art projects, enjoy unhurried walks at the park. I look into her eyes more. We plant things together in the garden. We dance together. I feel connected. Anchored. Alive.

Other days? Not so much. I lose my patience. I get caught in the spiral. I miss the moment, and then I grieve the missing. But I’m learning that mindfulness isn’t about being perfect—it’s about returning. Gently. Again and again.

And I’m not doing this alone. I’m so thankful to have people in my life who care enough to ask the hard questions. Who don’t let me stay stuck in fear or autopilot. Friends and family who see me clearly—even in the messy middle—and remind me of what’s true when my anxious thoughts are loud. They challenge me to pause, to breathe, to trust. To take a hot bath and have a cup of tea. What a gift it is to be known and loved in that way.

So I’m trying to build a life with space for both my anxiety and my intentions. I take deep breaths when the overwhelm creeps in. I name what I’m feeling instead of fighting it. I remind myself that presence isn’t a permanent state—it’s a practice. A muscle I’m slowly learning to strengthen.

And maybe that’s the point. My daughter doesn’t need a perfect mom. She needs a human one. One who tries. One who says sorry. One who keeps showing up, even when it’s hard.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re constantly wrestling with your thoughts while trying to soak in these fleeting moments—you’re not alone. We’re in this together, learning to live awake. Anxious, yes—but also anchored. Rooted in love. Reaching for peace. One mindful moment at a time.

That’s the heartbeat of Ever & Alder—a space to show up exactly as you are. Imperfectly perfect. Tender. Brave. Mindfully navigating this wild, beautiful gift of life the best way you can. You belong here. In the honesty, in the trying, in the becoming.

Love always,

MK