By: Meredith Elkins, Ph.D.
Nothing humbles a child psychologist faster than becoming a parent.
I had PhD in clinical child psychology, a résumé full of bona fides, and years of clinical experience caring for kids and parents under my belt. Given all that, plus my lifelong desire to be a mom, I was sure I would ace parenthood.
My baby girl absolutely threw me for a loop. All the credentials in the world meant nothing when I was wallowing in spit-up and sleep-deprivation, isolated from family and friends, and doing my best to care for a relentlessly screaming premature newborn.
I was supposed to be an expert. But instead, I felt profoundly alone, powerless, and like a total fraud. I’d spent years helping other kids and families in crisis, but I couldn’t calm my own baby. I couldn’t get her to sleep. And the things I couldn’t fix felt like evidence that I was failing.
“What if this means she has a predisposition to high emotionality and a slow return to baseline?” I lamented to my husband. “Those are classic risk factors for borderline personality disorder. She’s going to be writing poetry with eyeliner and dating guys with face tattoos by the ninth grade.”
He blinked. “Sweetie, she’s five months old. She’s going to be fine. Go take a nap.”
He was right. And now, years later, she’s better than fine. She’s incredible.
But not because her parent is a parenting expert.
I once believed my expertise would make parenting easier, but parenting ultimately gave me a perspective that my training alone never could.
Because as a parent, I understand the relentless pressure that we feel to “get it right” in a way I once understood only in theory. I’m navigating the same high-stakes, high-anxiety parenting culture the U.S. Surgeon General has linked to declining parental well-being. Like the parents with whom I work, I’m raising a child in a culture that tells me I’m responsible for it all; every outcome, every choice, every emotion. I’m under the same pressure to wear all the hats, all the time: protector, provider, nurturer, teacher, playmate, chef, Uber-driver, personal assistant, emotional security guard. And to make it look pretty while I’m at it.
There’s a quiet but constant hum of anxiety in the background of modern parenting. As a psychologist who specializes in addressing anxiety in kids and parents, I see just how deeply these pressures are taking root. I’ve come to see how what’s often praised as “good parenting”—working overtime to protect our kids from pain—can actually make anxiety worse. From the clinic to the carpool line, this well-intentioned instinct has become the norm, and its leaving both kids and parents overwhelmed and unprepared.
In the space where parenting and anxiety collide, I’ve learned to draw on both my clinical background and my own parenting perspective to communicate more clearly, compassionately, and practically about what parents really need to navigate anxiety in their children, and in themselves. Here’s some of what I’ve learned:
· Resilience is forged in discomfort. It doesn’t come from acing a task in which you are already expert; resilience emerges in the thick of uncertainty, when you surprise yourself with your grit, your courage, and your capacity to endure.
· You are not alone in your doubt. Every parent, even the “experts,” wrestles with uncertainty. Good parenting feels bad sometimes, and worrying, “am I doing the right thing” doesn’t necessarily mean that you are doing the wrong thing.
· The only thing you can control is your own behavior: keep your focus there. You can’t control your child’s feelings, thoughts, or actions. It’s frustrating, I know. But by letting go of what you can’t fix, you can focus on what you can do: shape their experience through how your respond to their distress.
· Reframe your thinking about what counts as “good parenting.” Research consistently shows that a strong relationship with one steady, loving adult is one of the best protections a child can have. Just showing up with care and consistency makes you your child’s greatest strength, providing more protection than bilingual flashcards, bucket-list vacations, or an Instagramable school lunch. You are enough.