I think this is normal: I worry for my children.
I worry for the middle one, sixteen and practical who covers her tenderness in a hard shell and drives herself, flagging, toward perfection. May she learn balance.
I worry for the youngest one, fourteen and angry and artistic and beautiful. May she learn to be gentle with herself.
I worry for the eldest one, almost twenty and struggling “to adult” with her kind heart exposed to the world. May she learn to protect and love herself.
I suppose I worry for myself, too, almost forty-five and wanting to clutch the children to me and pin their wings in the hope they will never, ever fall.