When news of the Surgeon General’s Advisory on Parental Health and Well-Being hit my feeds in late August, I clicked on Dr. Vivek Murthy’s story in the New York Times with the mix of curiosity and skepticism I typically feel when I open my kids’ report cards. On one hand, I’m always hopeful for some unexpected revelation that might help me connect with them in a new way. On the other, these are my kids we’re talking about. I’m with them all the time, including every evening as they labor through homework, so there should be zero surprises.
I dug into Murthy’s piece like it was the teacher comments section, on a familiar hunt for whatever nuggets of insight he might have to offer. At the same time, as a mom of three young children who finds herself naturally and constantly in touch with all aspects of his thesis, I was doubtful I’d find anything I didn’t already know.
Murthy argues that parents exist in an unsustainable state of overwhelm. That our stressors are big and plentiful, from economic concerns to basic safety, and that this chronic stress threatens the whole ecosystem — parents, kids, and by extension, all of society. To this I thought, respectfully, Duh?
I quickly realized, though, that this report wasn’t intended to solve the state of modern parenting, but to establish the extent of the problem. And I recognized myself there, in the tricky, heavy business of raising kids and running a household in the face of fearfulness and uncertainty. But what happens when there's more to the story?
Sudden, unexpected trauma as the primary source of parental stress is touched on only briefly in the report, despite the fact that many of us have experienced something like this, or will: a tragedy so random and out of bounds that it leaves not only our hearts shattered, but our belief systems, too. For me, it was the death of my older sister in a bicycling accident, seven years ago, that turned my whole system on its head — an epic loss that made every assumption I had held about life feel flimsy and foolish. In an instant, everything became dangerous; nothing was safe. My generalized, dare I say “normal” new-mom worries escalated immediately into a stubborn, all-encompassing anxiety and habitual hypervigilance, snowplowing in the extreme. Except it didn’t come from a place of wanting my kids to get ahead — honestly, that was the furthest thing from my mind. I’ve operated this way because I genuinely believed that’s what was needed to keep them alive.
Parenting from this mindset is a disaster. We know this, and yet, it’s helpful to understand how many of us have landed here: about 5 out of every 100 adults (or 5%) in the U.S. has PTSD in any given year.
My anxiety didn’t come from a place of wanting my kids to get ahead — honestly, that was the furthest thing from my mind. I’ve operated this way because I genuinely believed that’s what was needed to keep them alive.
The year Maureen died, my oldest, Scotty, was almost three, and his sister Caroline had just turned one. I’d read enough Janet Lansbury by that point to know, intellectually, that it was healthy and necessary for them to explore and experiment. But if I had been a bit of a hoverer before, the post-traumatic shift happening inside my mind brought an alertness I couldn’t turn off. It was like living inside of a split screen: one side showing my kids doing typical kid things, the other with a night vision overlay that revealed lurking almost-accidents in every direction. I couldn’t get out of my own way. So I got into theirs — barking out dire warnings of coffee table corners, too-high climbing branches, and tricky playground obstacles. If I had a dollar for every time I shouted some variation of “Be careful!” I’d be very, very rich.
I’ve often wondered if, within a year or two, I would’ve eventually found a way to mellow (or, another word I love, integrate) on my own, but life had other plans. Our youngest, Will, arrived prematurely at twenty-eight weeks and six days gestation in November of 2019 after a horror show of pregnancy complications. His three-month NICU stay and subsequent post-discharge health crises dovetailed with the dawn of Covid, so things continued to be not only scary and stressful, but infinitely more complex.
For a solid year, Covid shutdowns did a lot of the work for me. It was easy to decline playdates and outings and limit visitors, and everyone, to my great delight, became as obsessed with hand washing as I did. But as life opened back up, I started to feel like the person time forgot. I didn’t yearn for socializing or in-person alternatives to Zoom. I was fine sending the big kids to school in masks if it meant keeping Will healthy. A controversial stance, I realize, but one I was glad to take after the common cold had landed him back in the ICU.
Turns out it wasn’t just the germs. My split screen came back online with all manner of calamities unfolding on the night vision side — truly the most random, micro-level stuff. Stairs and curbs freaked me out. The stomping sound of the kids running in the house. S’more making (marshmallow spear could poke someone’s eye out), popcorn eating (you’ll choke on an un-popped kernel), and standing near a tree for too long (Google “sudden limb drop,” it’s a thing). Halloween (a kid’s dream day!) was haunted not by witches and goblins but my own ghastly hollering at anyone who stepped outside the painted confines of a crosswalk, or, God forbid, into one without a firmly lit WALK signal beckoning. With each small freedom granted, the instinct to retreat grew. One day my Instagram algorithm correctly served up a meme that read “Actually, all my systems are nervous,” and I thought to myself, Umm, yeah. I should have shirts made.
In the choice between fight, flight or freeze, I was certifiably frozen. In thought and in time, unable to acknowledge what could not be more clear: my one-size-fits-all safety strategy no longer worked, if it ever did. The kids (even Will!) were growing bigger, stronger and more capable in all the ways, which made my hyper-vigilance the increasingly limiting factor in their lives.
I’d argue that the most unreasonable expectation of a parent is to raise children alongside the intimate knowing that stuff happens.
But didn’t the fact that we all had made it this far just mean I was doing a really good job? To me, the more obvious move here was staying the course: I’d keep on with my mental tally of fun times had vs. worry expended, forever balancing the karmic equation that determined the safety we were owed.
I should have known better, right? Didn’t the death of my brilliant, beautiful sister followed by a totally unforeseen pregnancy debacle teach me life’s essential lesson on the illusion of control? Yes, and: nothing made more sense than tightening my grip. If our multitude-containing son or daughter, spouse, sibling, parent, or friend can, despite everything else, be reduced to an unfortunate case of wrong place, wrong time, or, — worse — Oops!, is there any more appropriate response as a parent than limiting the places and shortening the times?
That is what I needed the Surgeon General to signal in the advisory: a cellular-level understanding of what life with kids can look like when loss and trauma have upended your world view. By all means, his calls for more parental support, through policies and other institutional improvements are woefully needed, especially where looming wrong place-wrong time tragedies actually can be avoided (no more salient issue here than gun safety, in my opinion). Surely, there is urgent work to be done. But where his focus lands more in the stress parents feel to “keep up,” I’d argue that the most unreasonable expectation of a parent is to raise children alongside the intimate knowing that stuff happens. Stuff we didn’t plan for, and indeed, stuff we might be spending our whole lives ferociously trying to avoid.
I’ve lived with this knowing for seven years now. At times it feels like a superpower; at others, a weight I wish to put down. There is a constant tension between expansion and constriction, between “yes” moments and “no, no, no, this is all too much” — broadly, a sentiment Dr. Murthy seems to share.
So while he hasn’t yet landed on a legislative solution for existential dread, I’m heartened that he does seem to get what makes all of this worse: silence. The weight felt heaviest when I thought I was carrying it alone.
Grief and trauma responses are tough neural pathways to rewire, and it’s taken me a long time to realize that my fear will never go away entirely, nor should it.
In truth, I never was alone — but, man, has it been hard for me to feel that. My husband, my friends and family, my wonderful therapist — I’ve been extremely fortunate to walk through these difficult years with people whose brains aren’t permanently set to my doom-and-gloom channel, but tune in often enough to appreciate why mine is. They’ve also helped me arrive at what I think my goal really is: to be less reactive and more measured in my most fearful moments.
Admittedly, the progress towards these ideals has been slow-going, and only moves in relation to how open and vulnerable I am willing to be about the extent of my fears. Grief and trauma responses are tough neural pathways to rewire, and it’s taken me a long time to realize that my fear will never go away entirely, nor should it. My perspective is hard-won.
But more and more, the shift is apparent. I’ve always been buoyed by the notion that despite my heightened state, I’m still able to experience moments of real joy and ease — and from the looks of it, so do my kids. Now, watching Scotty zip down our block on his scooter (helmet firmly affixed), or Caroline set off to walk home from school with her bestie (only via streets with crossing guards), my heart bursts seeing their smiles. Wide grins projecting their felt sense of freedom, of “Look what I’m doing!” (or maybe more accurately, “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this!”). It’s elation, satisfaction, and confidence — feelings and qualities they deserve to possess, along with the skills and intuition they are building to identify danger, should it come their way.
For good reason, easing up with Will has been a bit of a different story. But our baby steps are getting bigger. Last month he came home sick with walking pneumonia, a diagnosis that’s historically been a 10/10 scare factor for me and extremely dangerous for Will and his little preemie lungs. “Remember,” the doctor said to me as we were leaving his office, “We can’t prevent him from ever getting sick. It’s about having a plan for when he does.” Jeez! Could you have told me that four years ago?
Thankfully, we survived. Will even said to me, “See, Mommy? (cough, cough), I’m fine!” “Louder!” I told him, and he repeated his declaration, with another cough for theatrical effect. He gets it, I thought, and hopefully so does the universe. I don’t do subtle when it comes to these reminders, I need it loud and clear: he’s a different kid now. I suppose I’m becoming a different mom, too.
Catherine Nettleton lives in Westchester County, NY with her husband and three kids (ages 10, 8, and 4.5). Her writing is focused on the topics of grief and loss, parenting, and caregiving.
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