My throat is tight, my palms are sweaty, and my stomach is in knots. Am I about to descend from the top of a roller coaster? No. It’s just another day of mothering with my anxiety disorder.

Opening up about my mental illness is hard because, despite understanding the neuro-complexities of my condition, I still feel as though it is something I should be able to control. Shame is always a strong undertone when it comes to living with a mental illness, and the shame is often as debilitating as the condition itself.

You see, I come from a strong lineage of farmers who didn’t have the “luxury” of becoming absorbed in baseless worry, so dealing with anxiety was always prescribed a “go throw some dirt around” or “run around the block” solution throughout my upbringing.

My parents did the best they could, raising me with the tools and tactics that were familiar to them. They figured their anxious little girl would grow up and out of such a silly phase, and that the responsibilities of adulthood would magically mold me into a stable, solid, unshakeable soul.

But, the reality is that I still struggle, and if I’m honest, I struggle now in adulthood more than ever. Some days are better than others, but my anxiety tends to be cyclical, coming in waves that seem to last for months before washing away like a low tide; the only evidence of its existence a slight debris silently littering the shore.

While my anxiety disorder impacts many aspects of my life, the one area in which it makes me feel most incompetent is often parenting. It’s hard for my bright-eyed two-year-old to comprehend why her mom is pacing back and forth, restless and revolting within her own mind. And while I do my best to shelter her from the realities of my mismanaged brain, sometimes I can’t help but feel inadequate, unqualified, and defeated.

Mothering with a mental illness doesn’t look like not leaving your bed for days, surviving on saltine crackers, and keeping the curtains drawn from morning until night. Those behaviors that allowed me to cope throughout my adolescence are no longer available to me. Now, it looks like ignoring my racing heart while preparing my daughter for daycare. It’s trying to steady my shaky hands as I drive down the road. It’s needing to work but feeling too paralyzed to put my thoughts onto paper. And it is exhausting.

Ultimately, just like every other aspect of motherhood, parenting with a mental illness often means learning how to ask for help. Be it from a doctor, a therapist, my partner, my family, or one of my wonderful neighbors. I try not to feel guilty for my shortcomings and instead try and funnel that toxic energy into taking care of myself so that I can better care for others. It’s one of the few strategies that actually work because instead of denying the cards I’ve been dealt, I’m finally able to meet myself where I am, as I am.

If you’re a mother with a mental illness, be it depression, bipolar, OCD, anxiety or whatever it may be that ails you- please know that you’re not alone and that your disorder doesn’t make you an unworthy parent. You will raise a child with such empathy and grace. A gentle soul that recognizes when others are in need and knows how to give the type of love that nourishes the soul. And isn’t that exactly what the world needs? More people who know how to approach others with a patient, nurturing touch?

Yes, there will be good days and bad, but guess what? That’s just motherhood in general. Life is full of ups and downs, wether they exist within your mind or in a manner that is a bit more tangible.

I wish this article could have a more conclusive ending, where I tie all my loose ends together and laminate a simple solution for others to mirror- but we all know that mental illness isn’t that straightforward. This is a lifelong struggle, and although I do believe it will get better, it’s also important for me to love myself and what I have to offer; as I am, at this very moment.

And I hope that you grant yourself the grace to do the same.