I woke up anxious for no reason

The Easter holidays are nearly over here. They’ve been full on – the demands, the needs, the constant reading of the room. I’m tired in the way that only this kind of parenting makes you tired. But we’ve had some calmer days too, and I’m holding onto those.

One of mine has already told me they’re feeling anxious about going back. The other – we’re navigating EBSA, so the transition carries its own particular weight. Both are in schools that truly understand them. And it’s still complicated.

I’ll be honest with you. I need them to go back. I need the quiet. I need to work, to think, to breathe out. I’m not ashamed of that – it’s just true. And I’m holding that alongside real worry for both of them. There’s no clean version of this feeling. It’s both things at once.

Near the end of the holidays I woke up anxious. No reason. Probably hormones – I’m in perimenopause, so my body does what it wants these days. Tightness in my chest. Shallow breathing. That feeling of wanting to cry without knowing why. The kind of feeling that can spiral if you let it.

I didn’t push through it. I put on something comfortable, let myself eat what felt good, listened to a guided meditation, lowered every expectation I had of myself for the day. I kept telling myself – even when it didn’t feel true – this will pass.

Later, I told one of my children about that morning. They sat there, gaming controller in hand, barely looking at me. I told them anyway. What it felt like in my body. What I did. That I reminded myself it wouldn’t last forever – even in the middle of it.

I wasn’t telling them what to do. I was just letting them know they’re not the only one who feels it. That it visits me too. That there are small ways to make your body feel a little safer while you wait for it to move through you.

A few days later, they told me they were feeling anxious. We talked – briefly, gently – about what might help. And I reminded them that the feeling does pass.

It always does.

If you’re heading into next week with that low hum of dread – for your child, or for yourself, or for the version of yourself that has to hold it all together again – I see you. This bit is hard. You’re not imagining it.