My daughter passed her driving test recently. She’s out there now, on the road, living her life. And one of the first things people say to me is:

“You must be so worried!”

“I couldn’t sleep when mine started driving!”

“You must be terrified!”

Apparently, I’m supposed to be worried. But I’m not.

And people don’t quite know what to do with that.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve been conditioned to believe that worry is the hallmark of good parenting. We’ve normalised the idea that worry = love. That if you’re not consumed with anxiety over your kids, you must not care enough. That to love your children means constantly fearing for them. That if you’re not worrying about everything they do, it must mean you’re not invested, that you don’t care enough, or that you’re not “doing it right.”

But I refuse to buy into that expectation.

It’s not that I live in a bubble or have a false sense of security, believing bad things only happen to other people. I’m acutely aware that bad things happen. But I also know that worrying about every possible outcome doesn’t protect anyone—it just robs me of peace. Being grounded and trusting doesn’t mean ignoring reality; it means accepting that while I can’t control everything, I can choose how to respond. I choose calm. I choose trust. I choose to live fully, not in fear.

For too long, I’ve carried the belief that if I’m not overwhelmed with worry, I’m not loving enough. That to be a good parent, I need to be anxious, always on edge, anticipating something going wrong. Worry became a parenting badge of honour—the proof that you care.

But that’s not what love looks like to me anymore.

I’ve already spent so much of my life as a parent worrying. So many hours, days, weeks, and years of guilt, fear, and overthinking. Questioning every decision. Wondering if I was doing enough. Wondering if I was enough.

Worry has followed me around like a shadow—worry about their health, their friendships, their emotions. Worry about school, the future, things people said, things I said. Worry about the kind of world they’re growing up in. Worry about how my own trauma might be shaping how I show up for them.

And what did it really change? What did it protect us from? Nothing, if I’m honest. It just stole peace from the present moment. It made me tired. It made me feel guilty for feeling tired. It made me second-guess myself, even when I was doing the best I could.

So, I’ve stopped feeding the worry.

I’ve stopped letting other people’s panic set the standard for my love.

It’s not just about driving. It’s about everything.

My daughter going out to pubs and clubs with her friends? I’m not worried.

My other children finding their own path, facing challenges, learning through trial and error? I’m not worried.

Especially as a chronically ill parent, my energy is limited. I don’t have the capacity to constantly worry about things that haven’t happened yet. And honestly? I don’t want to anymore.

This shift hasn’t happened overnight. It’s been slow and steady. Through flare-ups, through moments of stillness, through living with chronic illness, I’ve learned that groundedness doesn’t come from fear. It comes from trust.

Here’s the quiet truth I’ve only just begun to realise: I’ve been learning how to be grounded for years—without even knowing it. Through life. Through grief. Through parenting. Through healing. Through everything that’s cracked me open and softened me in equal measure. I’ve been slowly, gently, growing roots. I’ve been learning how to breathe through the chaos. To stay present. To trust. To sit with uncertainty and not let it swallow me.

And now, that groundedness shows up in moments like this—when my daughter drives away, or goes out to pubs and clubs with her friends, and I’m not panicking. I’m not waiting for disaster. I’m not obsessing over every possible bad thing that might happen. Because I trust her. I trust what I’ve poured into her.

And I trust myself, too.

My other kids are growing into their own lives, too—finding their voices, taking their own steps. And I feel the same. Present, connected, but not consumed by fear. I’m here when they need me. Always. But I’m not trying to control every outcome.

Worry might still pop up, sure—it’s human. But I no longer let it live rent-free in my mind. I no longer see it as a badge of honour. Because love doesn’t have to be frantic. It can be steady. It can look like deep breaths and a soft place to land.

Now, when my daughter heads out on the road or goes out with her friends, I’m calm. I trust her. I trust myself. I’m present, not panicking. And that feels like freedom.

People often say, “I worry because I know what I was like at that age.”

But I don’t buy into that either.

I remember what I was like. Yes, I made unwise choices. But those choices didn’t make me bad. I was carrying trauma I couldn’t name, growing up in a world where recklessness was normalised, and vulnerability wasn’t. I didn’t have the support or awareness that my daughter has now.

And even if she is doing the same things I did?

I’m still not worried. Because I’ve let go of the idea that those things automatically make her unsafe.

Making unwise choices is part of growing up. It’s a necessary part of the journey into adulthood.

What I will not pass down is shame.

Not healthy guilt, which says “I did something wrong.”

But toxic shame, which says “I am something wrong.”

That shame is traumatic. It sticks to you. It convinces you that you’re not worthy of love, especially if you mess up. I’ve carried it myself, and I don’t want my kids to feel it.

I want them to know that they’re allowed to make mistakes. That they’re allowed to grow, to learn, and to change. And that they are worthy of love—no matter what. I want them to know that unwise choices doesn’t mean they’re broken; they’re just part of the path to becoming who they’re meant to be.

My other children are growing in their own ways, too. And I feel the same with them.

I’m not trying to control them or worry about every move they make.

I’m parenting from a place of trust and love, not fear.

Yes, worry might still show up occasionally. I’m human. But I won’t let it consume me.

Because love isn’t about living in constant fear.

It’s about showing up with steady hands, open arms, and a heart full of trust.

So, no - I’m not worried.

I’m grounded.

And that’s more than enough.