Breathing Through Generational Anxiety

As I sit in court today, waiting through the stillness of an intensive divorce settlement panel, my chest tightens with anxiety. It’s a familiar feeling. One I’ve known since college — finals week, third year. Physical chemistry, analytical chem, microbiology… sleepless nights, Dunkin Donuts runs on Madison Ave with friends, and my little corner desk on the second floor of the campus library. That was my haven as a commuter student — because going home meant distractions, responsibilities, and guilt for not being present with family.

But one night, sitting at Olive Garden with my sisters and cousins, the panic hit me for the first time. I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt like it was caving in. I was sure I was dying. One minute, I was laughing. The next, I was drowning in fear. Thankfully, my sister — a medical assistant at the time — recognized it immediately.

“You’re having a panic attack,”

she said gently, placing a paper bag in my hands.
It took years — years — before I realized I wasn’t alone. I watched my mother have a similar episode, and something clicked: this was generational. Anxiety wasn’t just mine — it was inherited.

And it didn’t stop with me.

One night, not long ago, my baby girl cried herself to sleep. She couldn’t stop “suscaying,” a hiccupping sob from so deep in her belly that it shook her body. I recognized it instantly. It was me, all over again. I wouldn’t let her carry this alone.

I went to her room, placed her tiny hand on her heart, and covered it with mine. “Breathe, baby,” I whispered. But when she couldn’t, we tried something else — syncing our breath to her heartbeat. Slowly, slowly, she began to regulate.

In that quiet moment, I realized something powerful:

Anxiety may be inherited, but so is healing

She learned that night that no matter what she does, I will always be there. And I learned that I’m not just breaking cycles — I’m rewriting them.
As I move through this divorce, I insisted on therapy for my kids. My daughter is the only one who is attending so far — but that’s enough for now. She has a safe space to learn coping skills I didn’t have access to. And I’m walking this hard road too — with therapy, prayer, community, and grace.
I may not have chosen the pain, but I am choosing the healing.

For me.
For my children.

For all the generations to come.