“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 as much. But he’s nearly fifteen, and he still doesn’t sleep at night. He sleeps during the day when he should be learning, active, socialising, living. We even switched him to homeschooling—not out of whim, but necessity. The boy simply couldn’t function on a normal schedule.
No, he’s not gaming or glued to his phone. He reads. Writes. Draws. Listens to online lectures. Dives into biology, coding, and history all at once. He just can’t sleep—as if his brain doesn’t know where the ‘off’ switch is.
At first, I watched. Then I noticed odd habits—a drawer slamming shut ten times in a row, tugging at the rug, tapping the wall. It frightened me. Not because he was disruptive, but because it was clear: his nerves were fraying. That’s when I decided—we needed a specialist.
We went to a neurologist. She sent us for tests. All normal. Then, to a psychiatrist. The man greeted us with a cold smile and immediately turned the conversation from my son—to me. Polite, measured, until he landed on his ‘diagnosis’.
“You,” he said, “are overdoing it. You spend too much time with your son. You’ve… smothered him with love.”
I was stunned.
“Excuse me?”
“Normal parents,” he continued, lecturing, “see their child at breakfast and dinner. You’re always there. That’s why his mind is in a greenhouse—no resilience.”
“I work from home. Is that a crime?”
“Your anxiety is the crime!” he snapped. “You’ve dragged him halfway across London for tests. All because you’re hunting for an illness that isn’t there. You watch, you listen, you cling. You want a problem—just to feel needed.”
“With respect, the neurologist ordered those tests.” I kept my voice steady. “I was following advice.”
“A normal mother would’ve refused—bloody expensive, isn’t it? And even now, you look at him with heart-eyes while he digs in his pockets. No discipline. No respect. And you—soft. No backbone. I’d be the one on medication if I were you.”
Then… it began. Nearly half an hour of my expensive session, wasted as he rambled—about himself.
His daughter, who refuses to speak, dyes her hair blue, runs outside in shorts in winter. Who smokes in the stairwell, hangs with odd crowds. How he takes sedatives just to cope. “That’s how you accept a teenager’s personality,” he said.
I listened. Finished the session. Thanked him—then left.
Outside, the air felt lighter.
And you know what? I’m not anxious. I’m a mother. One who wants to understand her child, help him, not abandon him in the chaos of hormones, fears, sleepless nights. Yes, I’m here. Yes, we face it together. And if that unsettles someone—then they’ll never understand what real care means.
Now, I’m looking for another doctor. Calm. Respectful. One who won’t vent in sessions, but actually hear us. Because I know this much—loving your child isn’t a diagnosis. It’s normal. It’s motherhood.
