My Child’s Mental Health Crisis Taught Me About My Own: A Parent’s Journey of Discovery
By Amanda Foster
Published: December 22, 2025 • 10 min read
My daughter was twelve when she stopped eating lunch at school.
At first, I didn’t notice. She said she wasn’t hungry. She said the cafeteria was too loud. She said she was saving her appetite for dinner.
It took three months and a concerned call from her teacher for me to understand: Lily wasn’t skipping lunch because she wasn’t hungry. She was skipping lunch because she couldn’t handle the cafeteria. The noise, the crowds, the fear that she might say something stupid—it was all too much.
My daughter had an anxiety disorder.
And as I sat in the child psychologist’s office, listening to the diagnosis, something strange happened. I wasn’t just hearing about my daughter.
I was hearing about myself.
The Mirror I Didn’t Want to Look Into
The psychologist asked about family history. “Does anyone in the family have anxiety or depression?”
“No,” I said automatically. “We’re all pretty stable.”
She looked at me kindly. “Anxiety often runs in families. It doesn’t always look like what we expect. Sometimes it looks like perfectionism, or needing to control everything, or constant worry that something bad is about to happen.”
I shifted in my seat.
“Or avoiding situations because they feel overwhelming,” she continued. “Needing to prepare excessively for social events. Trouble sleeping because your mind won’t turn off.”
My chest tightened.
“Some parents don’t realize they have anxiety themselves until they see it in their children. The child becomes a mirror.”
Lily’s Treatment, My Awakening
Lily started therapy. She learned about her anxiety—what triggered it, how it showed up in her body, strategies to manage it. I sat in on some sessions, partly to support her, partly to understand.
And every session, I recognized more of myself.
Lily’s therapist talked about:
- Catastrophic thinking (assuming the worst will happen): I did that constantly
- Avoidance behaviors (skipping things that felt scary): I’d been avoiding for decades
- Physical symptoms of anxiety (stomachaches, headaches, racing heart): I thought those were just “stress”
- Seeking reassurance (needing others to confirm things were okay): My husband could write a book about this
- Perfectionism as a coping mechanism: My entire career was built on it
One evening, after a particularly illuminating session, I came home and told my husband: “I think I have anxiety too.”
He looked at me like I’d told him water was wet.
“Honey,” he said gently, “I’ve known that for twenty years.”
My Own Diagnosis
At 42, I made my first appointment with a therapist for myself. Not for Lily, not for “family stuff”—just for me.
The diagnosis came quickly: Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I’d had it my whole life.
“How did no one catch this?” I asked, genuinely bewildered.
My therapist explained: “High-functioning anxiety often goes undiagnosed, especially in women. You found ways to cope—perfectionism, over-preparation, controlling your environment. From the outside, it looks like you’re thriving. But inside, you’re exhausted from the constant vigilance.”
Exhausted. Yes. That was exactly the word.
The Intergenerational Thread
As I dug into my own mental health, patterns emerged.
My mother, who I’d always considered “just a worrier.” Who cleaned the house before the cleaning lady came. Who couldn’t go to bed if there was a dish in the sink. Who had a “nervous stomach” that acted up before every family event.
My grandmother, who “just liked things a certain way.” Who couldn’t handle unexpected visitors. Who kept a perfect home but rarely left it.
Three generations of anxious women, and not one of us had ever named it. We’d called it being “particular” or “organized” or “prepared.” We’d passed it down like a family recipe, each generation adding our own variations.
Lily was the first one to get a diagnosis. And because she did, so did I.
What We’ve Learned Together
Lily and I are both in treatment now. Sometimes we joke that we’re the “anxiety duo.” We’ve learned together:
Naming it helps. When Lily feels anxious now, she can say “my anxiety is acting up” instead of just feeling sick or avoiding lunch. When I feel anxious, I can recognize it for what it is instead of thinking I just need to “try harder.”
Strategies work. Breathing techniques. Grounding exercises. Cognitive reframing. They sounded hokey to me at first—I was skeptical that anything could help after four decades. But they work. Not perfectly, not every time, but enough.
Medication isn’t weakness. Both Lily and I started low-dose SSRIs. For her, it’s temporary support while she builds coping skills. For me, it’s addressing a chemical imbalance I’ve had my whole life. Neither of us is “taking the easy way out.”
We’re not alone. When Lily was diagnosed, I felt so alone—like I’d failed as a parent. But anxiety disorders affect nearly 1 in 3 adolescents. And adult anxiety is even more common. We’re not broken; we’re part of a very large club.
The Unexpected Gift of My Daughter’s Diagnosis
I won’t pretend Lily’s anxiety diagnosis was easy. Watching your child struggle is gut-wrenching. There have been hard nights, missed events, tears for both of us.
But there’s also been something unexpected: growth. Not just for Lily—for me.
At 44, I’m finally understanding myself. I’m finally getting help I didn’t know I needed. I’m finally giving myself permission to not be perfect, to not have everything figured out, to not white-knuckle my way through life.
My daughter’s mental health crisis didn’t just teach me about her. It taught me about me. About my mother, my grandmother, our whole anxious lineage.
If your child's diagnosis feels uncomfortably familiar, you're not alone. It's never too late to get help for yourself. In fact, one of the best things you can do for your anxious child is model what it looks like to acknowledge and treat your own mental health.
Your children are watching. Show them that seeking help is strength, not weakness.
Where We Are Now
Lily is 14 now. She eats lunch in the cafeteria—sometimes. She’s learned to advocate for herself when she needs a break. She has tools to manage her anxiety that I didn’t discover until I was 42.
And me? I’m still learning. Still in therapy. Still taking my medication. Still working to undo four decades of white-knuckling.
But I’m also more present than I’ve ever been. Less controlled by the need to control. More comfortable with uncertainty. More honest about my struggles.
My daughter’s crisis became my wake-up call. I’m grateful—for her diagnosis, for her courage, for the mirror she held up that finally helped me see myself clearly.
The chain of unnamed, untreated anxiety ends with us. And that’s a legacy I’m proud to leave.
Amanda Foster is a project manager and mother of two living in suburban Chicago. She now advocates for mental health screening for both children and their parents.