Wasps, amygdalas, and deep breaths

When to flee, when to stay still and breathe deeply

Photo by Max Muselmann on Unsplash

A few weeks ago. we had one of those mornings that was just a little too busy. D was away, the boys had to be at school early, and I had an early appointment. We were managing fine, but the morning carried that familiar tension of a tight schedule, everything moving just a bit faster. I took the dog out on the leash, and as we headed back toward the house—maybe 20 feet from the door—I felt a sudden, piercing pain in my upper arm. Startled, I glanced down to see the culprit: a yellow jacket, its sting sharp and searing. I swatted it away and hurried inside, dropping the leash and telling the boys I had been stung, feeling a brief wave of relief that the ordeal was over. But of course, it wasn’t.

Within seconds, more pain surged through me—on both arms, my leg, my lower back. My brain went into survival mode, fight-or-flight kicking in, and I raced upstairs. In the bathroom, I quickly stripped off my clothes, trying to isolate the wasps I had unknowingly brought into the house. I found three of them—one tangled in my hair, another in my pants, and a third clinging to my shirt. I swiftly put an end to them, shook out my clothes to be sure no others were lurking, got dressed again, and then sat on the floor, letting myself cry for exactly three minutes.

I collected myself, took some deep breaths, and walked out of the bathroom with more than 20 points of burning, intense pain. I said goodbye to the boys and headed upstairs, ready to put on my professional self before starting my work day.

I knew I had to engage my relaxation response to turn off the fight-or-flight response that had activated with that first glance of the yellow jacket. I sat at my desk, closed my eyes, and took 40 deep breaths. I unclenched my fists, dropped my shoulders, gently encouraged myself to relax. I reminded myself I was safe, the wasps were gone, no harm was imminent. I could feel my heart rate slowing, my blood pressure dropping, my muscles letting go of the tension, my face starting to cool off. My brain was hopefully signalling to my endocrine system to stop the release of adrenaline and cortisol. My amygdala conceded control to my prefrontal cortex.

Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

Last Sunday, I got a text from L that I had both anticipated and dreaded. He gave me only the briefest summary, what he had to share to get the information he needed from me. Reading the words on my phone, I felt the anxiety rising. Quickly. My amygdala started to take over, decreasing the blood flow from the thinking and decision-making part of my brain and rerouting it to my extremities to make fighting or fleeing easier. My pulse quickened, my cheeks started to flush. Worst-case scenario thoughts ran through my brain like the headline tickers on CNN or MSNBC. I started to type out a question to L, full of my panic and worry.

And then I stopped.

I took a deep breath. I thanked my amygdala for its concern, but sent it back on PTO. I was not going to let anxiety drive this interaction. I was not going to let adrenaline course through my veins and barrage my child with worries that came not from reasoned, thoughtful contemplation but quickfire panic. I reminded myself that this was part of him growing up.

I closed my eyes. I took dozens of deep breaths, unfurled my brow, let my jaw fall slack, focused in on my breathing, counting as I breathed in and out.

I waited until I could see he was safely at his destination before calling him to get the full details. He was nonchalant, his voice confident, his words not betraying that confidence.

Everything was fine.

If you have been reading along with my parenting journey, you know I have not always been able to call in my parasympathetic nervous system to balance out my more frantic sympathetic nervous system. I worked hard to retrain my anxiety/stress response to be less reactive, to not be the first one on the scene any time I felt uncertainty creep in. I have spent hours walking in the woods. I looked long and hard at what was increasing my anxiety and what decreased it. I made some hard choices to stop engaging with anxiety-producing situations when I could. I have been more intentional about living in the moment. I have been more deliberate about with whom and how I spend my time. Gratitude is the grease that keeps the wheels of my daily life spinning. I’ve finally told the dictator in my head—who lorded over me with rigid expectations, rules, and the sharp crack of self-judgment—that the position is no longer funded. I’ve learned to embrace that for me, feeling all the feelings as they come, crying nearly every day, is just part of who I am and how I navigate the world. It’s not something to fight, but something that allows me to live more fully.

Anxiety takes up a lot of space. It crowds out our ability to see the small joys, to appreciate the beauty that is all around us. When I am constantly worried about what might happen, I often don’t see what is happening. But this fall, worry has not clouded my appreciation of nature’s awe-inspiring presence. I head into the woods, just minutes from my front door—a place I’ve wandered hundreds, maybe thousands of times in the nearly 19 years we’ve lived here—and still, I’m awestruck. The beauty of the trees, the shifting light, the quiet rustling of leaves all pull me into the present, reminding me of the wonder that anxiety had previously dimmed. I have reconnected with friends, repairing relationships that I once thought were over. I have relationships that are mutual and replenishing. I feel my friends’ joys and losses as my own. Because I have room for this. I have cleared out the things that were pulling me down, taking up space, increasing the cortisol, tearing at my heart. What remains are the friendships, the connections that bring an instant spark of joy—lighting me up when I see their name in my messages or their face in the doorway. These are the moments that fill me with warmth, reminding me of the depth and beauty of the bonds I’ve reclaimed and maintained.

And, it gives me room to fully parent my young men in the way that they need, which at this point is more about the letting go than the holding close. I remember those early days, when they were just starting to walk on their own. As they took those first tentative steps away, they would glance back, checking to see if I was still there, looking for my confidence in their ability to move. My delight, my pride in their development became the foundation for their confidence, their belief that they could continue on. Had I rushed to them, taken their tiny fingers and supplemented their stability with my own, I would have crushed some part of that confidence, hampered their burgeoning belief in their ability to move forward. Anxiety would have motivated my intervention; anxiety that could have delayed their movement forward.

And so, I remain here, steadfast in my belief that they have the skills to move on their own. To take those next faltering steps forward, that those steps will gain confidence and stability, will eventually become a run. I can’t rush in, I can’t crowd them with worry. I must stay firm, beaming with the pride, the delight, the confidence that they have what they need—and the ability to ask for and find what they don’t already have—to move forward in this world. Even though those steps so often take them further and further away from me. When they glance back, my eyes, my heart will continue to radiate with love, joy, and deep pride in who they are, who they have become.

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.

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