There are a thousand things I could say to soften this, but the truth is I’m scared.
Not just a little worried, not just occasionally anxious. No, I mean the kind of fear that wakes you up in the middle of the night and sits heavy on your chest. The kind that whispers in your ear when you’re doing dishes or driving in silence. The kind that doesn’t always scream, but lingers. Always there. Always pressing.
I’m scared of failing.
I’m scared of waking up one day and realizing I missed it. That I got so wrapped up in trying to survive, trying to stay steady, trying to hold it all together that I blinked and it all passed me by. I’m scared that the weight I carry will one day crush the light in me. That I’ll look back and see a life made up of almosts and could have beens.
I’m scared of regret.
The kind that doesn’t come from wrong turns but from standing still. From not leaping. From not believing in myself when it mattered most. I’ve lived through moments of loss, of chaos, of confusion and I wonder sometimes if I’ve let them write too much of my story.
I’m scared of not being enough.
Of not being strong enough. Gentle enough. Present enough. Good enough.
Especially for my children.
They don’t know it but they’re the air I breathe. And with that love comes a pressure I don’t always know how to carry. I want to get it right. I want to raise them in love and light, not in fear and survival like I was. But some days? I feel like I’m just barely keeping the pieces together with hope and tape.
It feels like parenting on a tightrope. One misstep, and everything I’m trying to do differently everything I’m trying to heal might shatter. And that terrifies me.
I’m scared of causing them pain. Of saying the wrong thing. Of missing the moment they needed me most. Of being too tired or too distracted or too broken to show up the way I want to.
Sometimes it feels like I’m a dam holding back water trying to stay strong while cracks form underneath. I smile through the pressure, because I don’t want them to see how close I am to spilling over. But inside? I’m shaking.
And still, I wake up every day and try again.
Because love makes you show up even when you’re afraid.
Because my fear, though loud, is still quieter than my love for them.
I know that being scared doesn’t mean I’m weak it means I care. It means I want this life to mean something. It means I understand the weight of what’s at stake. It means I carry the kind of love that aches. And while fear likes to tell me that it’s all too much, I’m learning to answer back with grace.
Fear is loud. But I can be louder.
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have a five-year plan wrapped in gold or a road map for what’s next. But I have truth. I have heart. I have a quiet resilience that has carried me farther than anyone ever expected.
I’m scared, yes.
But I’m still here.
Still trying.
Still showing up.
Still loving with everything I’ve got.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
-Masked Mom
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