Love, Wearing Anxiety’s Clothes
Maybe it isn’t control after all.
Maybe it’s just love… wearing anxiety’s clothes.
I’ve spent years believing I have a control problem.
I replay conversations. I ask one more question. I make lists. I prepare for scenarios that haven’t happened yet. Put me in a hospital, and all of those instincts go into overdrive.
This week, as my mom lay in a hospital bed fighting an infection, I caught myself trying to manage everything. I wanted to hear every conversation. I wanted to understand every lab result. I wanted to know what the next step was before the current one was even finished.
Looking back, I don’t think I was trying to control the hospital. I was trying to protect my mom.
I want to be clear about something, because this matters. Her nurses were phenomenal. Her physicians were wonderful. Every person who walked into that room treated her with kindness, compassion, and expertise.
I wasn’t questioning them. I was questioning everything.
Because that’s what anxiety does. It asks, “What if?” over and over again until your brain can’t distinguish caution from fear.
Then came the moment… her nurse confirmed Infectious Disease would be coming to see her.
I watched the color drain from my mom’s face.
She heard one title and immediately assumed the worst. I heard it too—but I heard something completely different.
“Mom, this is exactly who we want.”
At Sarah Bush, Infectious Disease isn’t a department full of physicians. It’s one physician. And in my opinion, he’s one of the smartest people in the building. Sitting through one of his history lessons is enough to convince anyone of that. His knowledge is incredible, and his reputation is exactly why he gets called when cases become more complex.
His consultation didn’t scare me. It reassured me.
So I tried to give that reassurance to my mom before anxiety could convince her otherwise.
I’ve realized that’s what I spent the entire week doing.
Borrowing calm for her whenever she couldn’t find her own. Explaining medical language before fear translated it into catastrophe.
Asking question after question—not because I doubted the answers, but because understanding quiets my anxiety.
Given my medical history, I know how quickly your mind can sprint from one unfamiliar medical term to the worst possible outcome.
I’ve lived there. I know that look.
So when I saw it on my mom’s face, every protective instinct I had came rushing to the surface.
The more I reflect on this week, the more I realize something. Maybe my anxiety has never really been about control. Maybe it’s always been about love.
Love trying desperately to soften hard news. Love trying to absorb someone else’s fear. Love trying to carry the weight so they don’t have to.
I couldn’t make her heal any faster. I couldn’t promise everything would be okay. But I could sit beside her.
I could ask the questions that were spinning through my own mind and I could remind her that she was surrounded by an incredible team.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe love was never meant to control the storm. Maybe it was only ever meant to sit beside someone while it rained.
Maybe it isn’t control after all.
Maybe it’s just love… wearing anxiety’s clothes.
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