Hi, I’m David. I’m a Recovering Anxious Parent

Seven years ago, it was a common experience to wake up each morning full of anxiety. On any regular Monday morning, I’d open my eyes at 6 a.m., and my mind would already be in full overdrive - and that was before I even woke my two daughters to get them ready for school.

At some point, I gave that inner voice a name: Anxious Annie. She was (and still is) a piece of work. She’s been with me for a long time, always buzzing with urgency, worry, and worst-case scenarios.

Do you have an Anxious Annie, too?

Anxious Annie used to run the show. Every morning felt like a sprint before the race even began - packing backpacks, managing meltdowns, fielding work emails, questioning every decision I made as a parent, partner, and professional.

As a gay white father raising two Black daughters through foster adoption, I’ve had to learn, unlearn, and relearn a lot in my 16 years of parenting. I think I was anxious before I became a parent, but parenting intensified it. Not just the logistics, but the emotional responsibility of raising kids who came to us with early trauma. I carried their pain alongside mine, often ignoring my own needs.

One moment that stays with me happened when my daughters were 10 and 4. We were waiting at a bus stop - just the three of us - when a stranger approached us from a car and offered them popsicles. I politely declined. Within seconds, the person became enraged and kicked me in the back, knocking me to the ground. I was assaulted simply for protecting my kids. It was scary for me and for my girls.

That moment shook me to my core. It reinforced a gnawing fear I already carried: that I couldn’t keep them safe. I think that incident intensified my anxiety, long before I became fully aware of how it was shaping my thoughts, my feelings, and my behaviors. I felt like I had failed - again. Failed to protect them from yet another traumatic experience. Failed to be the calm, grounded parent they needed. I was constantly battling the fear that I wasn’t enough for these brilliant, sensitive, complex little humans who needed so much healing and love.

Seven years ago, I dreaded waking up. Each day felt like a mountain I was too exhausted to climb. I was convinced I was failing every time my daughters had a tantrum. I judged myself relentlessly. My inner critic, my hyper-achiever saboteur, was ruthless. At work, I found brief reprieve. I could demonstrate mastery, earn validation. But any feedback, no matter how small, would send me spiraling. I’d imagine the worst: I’m a fraud, They’re just being polite. The real criticism is coming. Soon I’ll be on a performance plan. (Spoiler alert: That never happened.)

What did happen was something unexpected. In 2019, my employer offered a virtual coaching program. I signed up and was paired with Colin, a coach who was also a professional actor. As a former actor myself, I felt an instant kinship. Colin was gay, warm, funny, and kind—and he had no kids. Honestly, I didn’t want a coach whose life looked like mine. I wanted someone grounded, yes, but also a little removed. Someone with perspective, and no skin in the same game I was drowning in.

Colin helped me find that still, quiet voice beneath the chaos. He helped me see Anxious Annie for what she was: a part of me that was trying to keep me safe. He helped me realize I wasn’t broken. I was just depleted. I’d been pouring from an empty cup for years.

One day, I told Colin that doing a jigsaw puzzle felt like the highlight of my week - but I never made time for it. It felt indulgent. Silly, even. He looked at me and said, “What if it’s not silly at all? What if it’s sacred?” That moment cracked something open in me.

From there, I started slowly reclaiming parts of myself. Not by doing more, but by being gentler. Taking 10 minutes for a puzzle. Sitting outside with a cup of tea. Making dates with friends. Committing to daily meditation. Allowing myself to be cared for in small, intentional practices.

Now, as a professional coach myself, I hold space for others who are wrestling with their own inner critics. I’ve lived the questions. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re failing at everything when really - you’re just overwhelmed, deeply caring, and in need of compassion.

Lately, I’ve been reading Gabrielle Bernstein’s Happy Days, and one line stood out to me: “A belief is really only a thought you keep thinking.” So many of us keep thinking that we’re not good enough. That we’re failing. That we don’t deserve rest, joy, or a damn jigsaw puzzle.

But here’s what I believe now: healing doesn’t come from doing more. It comes from listening more deeply. From tending to the small fractures we’ve ignored. From remembering that our own wellbeing matters too.

If you’re reading this and nodding along, maybe you have an Anxious Annie of your own. Maybe she’s been with you for a long time, too. I want you to know you’re not alone. And I want to help you discover what small act of care - what sacred jigsaw puzzle - is waiting for your attention.

You deserve a life where your needs matter. You don’t have to earn rest. You just have to claim it.