“You’re giving your child too much attention,” the doctor told me. But I’m not anxious—I’m just a mother.
If my son were still a toddler, perhaps I wouldn’t worry. But he’s nearly fifteen, and he still doesn’t sleep at night. He dozes by day when he should be studying, socialising, living. We even switched him to homeschooling—not as a whim, but a necessity. He simply can’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he isn’t glued to video games or scrolling endlessly on his phone. He reads. He writes. He sketches. He listens to online lectures, absorbing biology, coding, and history all at once. He just… can’t sleep—as if his brain refuses to find the “off” switch.
At first, I watched. Then, I noticed little quirks—tapping his desk drawer shut a dozen times, tugging at the rug, knocking on the wall. It wasn’t disruptive, but unsettling. His nerves were fraying. So, I decided—we needed help.
The neurologist ran tests. All normal. Next, the psychiatrist. Cold smile, curt tone. He barely glanced at my son before turning to me. Polite, clipped sentences—until his verdict:
“You’re smothering him. Normal parents see their child at breakfast and supper. You hover. That’s why he’s like this—no resilience, only a hothouse mentality.”
“I work remotely. Is that a crime?”
“The crime,” he snapped, “is your anxiety! You’ve dragged him half across London for tests, hunting a problem that isn’t there. You fixate, fret, fuss—as if you need him broken to feel needed.”
“The neurologist ordered those tests,” I said evenly. “I just followed advice.”
“A sensible mother would’ve refused—costly nonsense! And look at you now, gazing at him like he’s spun gold while he digs in his pockets. No discipline. Yet you—soft. Indulgent. I’d be on sedatives in your place.”
Then… it came. Nearly half an hour of my paid session wasted as he monologued about his own daughter—dyed hair, frostbite-defying shorts, cigarettes in the stairwell, dubious friends. How he swallows calming tablets to endure her “teenage rebellion.” Like that was acceptance.
I listened. Thanked him. Walked out.
The air outside tasted cleaner.
Here’s the truth: I’m not anxious. I’m a mother. One who refuses to let her child drown alone in the storm of hormones, dread, and sleepless nights. Yes, I’m there. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone? Then they’ve never known real care.
Now, I’ll find another doctor. One who listens—not lectures. Because loving your child isn’t a diagnosis. It’s motherhood. And no amount of misplaced judgment will make me apologise for that.
