Eight days after he turned eighteen months old, my son – who had never taken more than two stumbling steps – stood up under his own power and walked several yards from our living room into our kitchen. 

I had obsessed since his first birthday over his mobility. When he reached sixteen months, I panicked. I had seen a clip somewhere of a pediatrician claiming that “most” toddlers walked by fifteen months. My son was an avid cruiser and accomplished climber, but he would not walk.  

“You were a late walker,” my Mom told me a dozen times. “About nineteen months.” 

“Weren’t you worried?” I asked. 

“Not really. We didn’t know as much then.” 

Whenever we discussed this issue, I thought about how my mother must have felt in the late nineties as she awaited my first steps. She would have spoken to her coworkers and the pediatrician, maybe consulted a book or two. Meanwhile, I faced an avalanche of parenting horror stories every time I checked Instagram. 

One of my friends, a mother of two, reassured me on a weekly basis. “He will walk soon,” she told me in a gentle voice. “Even if he doesn’t walk until he’s twenty months old, he will catch up.”

Our pediatrician was sanguine, too. “There’s a wide range of normal,” she said.

I knew they were right, but I had to worry. What kind of mother was I if I didn’t worry?

1 John 4:18 (RSV-CE) says: “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” I was shaken the first time I reread this verse as a new mother. Modern parenting discourse suggests that love should look like fear, or even that love and fear are one and the same. Instagram stories, blog posts, and even many parenting books recommend constant vigilance against signs of motor delays and warn that “screen time” could cause permanent developmental disorders. New mothers learn that dire threats to their children are both constant and avoidable if we just try hard enough – no microplastics, no polyester, no screens, no prescriptions during pregnancy, and no negative thoughts…stress is bad for your baby, after all. 

My terror of doing something wrong made my early days of motherhood a spiral of anxiety. At the time, I was a corporate lawyer working at an elite firm. I had prepared for a storied career since age eleven, which is when I was accepted to an exclusive private school after a rigorous application process. I was disciplined. I was smart. I was not sensitive to the challenges parenting would present, nor strong enough in my faith to accept my own weaknesses. In time, these limitations capsized my life. I realized was no longer the girl I was before motherhood. I was both more fierce and more tender than I could have imagined. I was also tired of the achievement treadmill that had consumed much of my life. 

What saved me was a mother’s group at our parish church. I needed friends and wisdom more than anything else at that fragile time. I entered that first casual meeting in May 2024 as a stranger, but all of them welcomed me. I became a stay at-home Mom in September. Soon, many of us were meeting weekly to read Scripture together and share the joys and sufferings in our lives. For the past year, these women have walked with me through rejoicing and sorrow. To say their wisdom is a gift would be an understatement. Their friendship is a treasure beyond words. 

These mothers taught me by example that love should not make us fearful, but brave. I found that with their help, I had the courage to accept my imperfect mothering and my imperfect child. 

I saw so much parenting paranoia on Instagram that I deleted it altogether. When I am with my friends, I never hear all-or-nothing statements about how, for instance, co-sleeping is a death trap or that disposable diapers could cause future infertility. My friends never pick apart the exact placement of my child’s car seat chest clip. Such condemnation and speculation are unavoidable online, though, and the fear-mongering I saw on Instagram interfered with my sleep.  

The time is long past for us to tell new mothers that they do not need the advice of parenting “experts” or “influencers,” especially not those that charge money for their wisdom. They do need a sensitive pediatrician, preferably one who is also a parent, the mentorship of older mothers, and the kindness of loving friends. These relationships are the only antidote to our age of worry.

In early July, my son walked. As he stood – which he had never done before - he met my eyes with a knowing gaze. No doubt he had sensed my fear in the past few months. Yet my son trusted himself, knowing that he was neither early nor late. I think he was telling me that I could trust him, too. 

My son now scampers everywhere on foot like an expert. Sometimes I still marvel as I watch him and think of how it was his faith, and not mine, that brought us here.