The Dawn of Anxiety

My brain’s been rewired.

The new setting is: Constant Threat Detection Mode.

Before the baby, I slept easily.

The world was a place to explore, not survive.

I loved adventure. Travel. Freedom.

Then she arrived.

And something inside me… shifted.

Now I lean over the cot every night, checking that her chest is still rising, that her mouth is warm, that air is actually coming out.

Every. Single. Time.

My brain doesn’t rest — it’s running nightly security drills.

I used to see stairs.

Now I see death traps.

Coffee-table corners? Bladed weapons.

Escalators? Basically, rotating guillotines.

Flying?

Once, I loved the hum of take-off — now I picture my children, motherless, at baggage claim.

My brain has decided it’s safer if we’re all on the same flight — as if going down together is somehow the better option.

One bump of turbulence and I’m whispering my will to the stranger in 24C, in case they survive and I don’t.

And suddenly… I understand my mother.

The woman who once refused to let me go on a road trip with my friend who’d just gotten their licence.

“What’s your problem?” Now I know.

I am the problem.

And I’d probably say no too — and make them wear hi-vis while sulking about it.

Somewhere between birth and survival mode, my nervous system got remapped.

Congratulations! You’ve unlocked hypervigilance. This feature never turns off.

I miss the version of me who wasn’t always on alert for danger.

Who walked through the world like it was hers.

She’s still in here somewhere — just wearing a seatbelt, triple-checking the baby monitor, and whipping out the top-of-the-range ear thermometer anytime someone looks the least bit ailed.  

Survival Tip

• Put the phone down after three tabs. Tab four is catastrophe.