Moving Through Fear After a Traumatic Event

The scariest experience of my life happened two weeks ago.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, the warmest day this year in Rhode Island. My mother-in-law, Teresa, and I sat chatting on the deck off the back of the house while my 18 month-old son Briggs ran around and explored. The deck (I know now) is 5ft above the yard.

We were keeping a close eye on Briggs, the baby gate to the stairs was securely closed, and there were no obvious hazards. I noticed he was peeking his head out through the spindles of the railing, as he has done a dozen times before, curiously watching our dog Russell in the yard. He was cuter than ever in his new striped summer jumper and green sun hat, his bare arms and legs as white as the clouds.

Suddenly, a loud crash, and he was gone.

My mind severed from my body. My limp limbs sprinted toward the stairs. I heard myself screaming as I ripped the gate open. I watched myself turn to see my baby on a slab of concrete below the deck, next to the large metal HVAC unit.

My eyes saw him crying.

My mind said he’s dead.

I’m holding him, he’s sobbing, I’m shaking, my mouth is saying “ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” I pull away to look at his face, I yank his green sun hat off. Teresa is there. She’s touching all over his body. Is there blood? Are there bumps? Is he intact?

His head. Three large bruises swell on his head, all three the same, perfectly spaced. My eyes scan back to the HVAC unit. The vents. They are the same shape. He hit his head on the way down. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.”

Impossibly, my little boy was okay. Bruised, but okay.

I, on the other hand, was not.

Every mother knows the fear that lives deep within, the worst one of all, the one that occasionally whispers up what if? The one we push back down so we can keep breathing.

For 24 hours, my body remained numb as my mind worked to sshhhh the whisper. “He’s safe. The worst didn’t happen. He’s right here. This wasn’t your fault. He is okay.”

But then, my body remembered.

The excruciating stabs of what if hit me as if the worst had actually happened. The agonizing reminder that I am not in control. My toes curled as I rocked in the fetal position, my whole body shaking from the unrelenting sobs. It felt like this terror would never end, that I wouldn’t survive this feeling. 

But I surrendered, and it released.

My baby survived, and so did I.

In the aftermath, I’m left with the difficult truth that no matter how much I try to control, no matter how “perfect” I try to be, bad things will happen to him.

He will get hurt. He will be rejected. He will have his heart broken. I can’t protect him from all of it, nor can I protect my heart from the pain. That is the cost of a love this big.

But this experience also reminded me that I can survive any feeling, no matter how painful.

If we allow ourselves to really feel, rather than fight it or run from it, it will eventually move through and out. 

The fear of the feeling is worse than the feeling itself.

Of course I still worry about my son, as every mother does. But when the whispers of what if get too loud, I whisper back “he is safe, I am safe, we are safe.”

I can’t control what might happen in the future. All I can do is love him anyway. Be grateful for this moment with him right now. And remember that no matter what,

I will survive.