My husband and I were recently called to be Sunbeam teachers at our church. We teach three-year-olds. And this past Sunday, we had seven of them.
Seven tiny humans in one room doesn’t sound like much. But it is.
Don’t get me wrong, they are so adorable and are full of joy! It just that this past Sunday felt like too much.
When It Started to Feel Like Too Much
About halfway through the lesson, I felt anxiety hit me out of nowhere.
I could see the kids right in front of me, but it felt like I was watching through fogged glass, distant and unreal. Like that slow-motion scene in a movie where the hero realizes everything is falling apart, heart pounding, breath shallow.
A small voice (my own consciousness, probably) whispered through the haze: Keep going. I didn’t want to. Every part of me screamed to run, to hide, to escape the noise and the need pressing in from all sides. But I forced a smile. It felt plastic, fake, stretched too tight across my face. And the moment I did, came crashing back at once.
Kids were all around me. Tiny hands tugged at my sleeves. “Help me! Make it!” one little girl begged, shoving Play-Doh into my palms for the third time. Another boy mirrored her, pressing his lump of Play-Doh against my fingers, eyes wide and expectant. A second little boy was climbing his chair. And then there was the proud little girl waving her wiggly Play-Doh snake in my face: “Look! Snake!” All of them-at once. All needing me. Right now.
My chest tightened. Heat crept up my neck. A familiar yet terrifying feeling.
I glanced across the room at my husband. He was kneeling with his group, calm, patient, guiding their hands gently. They were content, focused, hardly needing correction. A sharp pang of jealousy stabbed through me. Why was this so easy for him? Why did I feel like I was drowning? I hated that thought the second it came, but it lingered.
I swallowed my pride, turned back to my little cluster of chaos, and somehow found the strength to smile again. “Wow, what a cool snake!” I said, meaning it. I showed the two Play-Doh-shovers a quick twist technique. I placed a firm hand on the chair-climber’s shoulder: “Sit down, sweetie, so you don’t get hurt.”
Looking back, those kiddos had a great time. There was nothing wrong with them.
Clearly I was the one who wasn’t ready.
Yet somehow, I got through it.
Getting Through It Didn’t Mean I Was Okay
But by the end of class, I felt completely spent. Hot. Overwhelmed. As each child got picked up, I could feel the tears building. My husband looked relieved that class was over—but otherwise fine.
Then he looked at me.
And I looked away.
I couldn’t bear to let him see how weak I felt, how broken this simple calling had made me feel. He thought the class went well. I was over here, barely holding it together.
We didn’t talk until we left the building.
On the short walk to the car, the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“I need you to do more. A lot more.”
They landed like knives. I could see it in his eyes. It wasn’t his fault. None of it was. But blaming him felt easier than facing the truth: I have issues. Deep ones. I feel so broken. And I need to fix it. Fast. But how?
In the car, he listened. Truly listened. As I ranted, picked apart my own weaknesses, laid every ugly feeling bare. “I feel broken. I can’t do this. I’m scared.” I felt his love wrap around me. But my fears remained. What if this pushes him away? What if life stays this hard and I can never be happy? What if I’m trapped forever in this endless loop of planning ahead, anticipating disaster, and never feeling peace?
I realized something then.
When Anxiety Makes Me Question My Faith
I question my faith. Not in my Savior, but in myself. And in a way, that’s questioning Him too.
If He can do anything, heal anything, why can’t I believe He can heal me?
Anxiety has been part of my life for a long time. And it still is.
I know I’m not alone in this. That’s why I’m sharing it.
If you’ve felt this too,
what has helped you through moments like this?
I’d really love to know.
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