A routine doctor visit turned into an anxiety test—for me and Sara
No matter how many times people tell me this—and no matter how much I want to change—when the moment of truth comes, I always fail.
You can’t fight genetics using conventional methods.
A person’s basic nature doesn’t suddenly transform overnight, even when life flips upside down and they become a father.
We all know the story of the scorpion and the frog—and sadly, I’m learning it’s much more than a cruel little animal fable.
I’m a Nervous Person. Sometimes Too Nervous
By nature, I’m a very tense person—sometimes bordering on full-blown hysteria.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that for most of my life I lived inside a quiet, safe inner world… so any disruption can throw me completely off balance.
But realistically, it’s probably something I inherited from my beloved mother—along with a whole mixed basket of traits, both good and bad.
It’s not pleasant to admit, but this “feature” has caused me plenty of trouble throughout my life—at work, in relationships, and with family.
Let’s put it this way: in uncomfortable situations, the calm version of me doesn’t always show up.
And Then… Sara Started Showing the Same Signs
And now—much to my shock—I’m starting to notice that my daughter, Sara, is showing some very clear signs of becoming a tiny pressure cooker herself.
Her fuse is short. Maybe even shorter than mine.
And when things don’t go according to her plan, it’s time to run and take cover from the storm.
A Doctor’s Visit Under Missile Threats
Yesterday I realized just how serious this problem might be, when we went to a pediatric orthopedist for an ultrasound exam of Sara’s hips.
Like with every medical test and appointment I take Sara to, my mother came with us—Sara’s beloved grandmother, the woman she was named after.
So there we were, on a winter day, under the threat of missiles that could be launched toward us from Iran—three generations of anxious people—taking a taxi to the clinic.
My mother and I didn’t talk about it, but we both knew we could end up in a very unpleasant situation, far from any safe room, if a siren suddenly went off.
At the same time, we both knew this appointment had to happen urgently—after a month-long delay for reasons completely unrelated to us.
The foundation of anxiety was already there.
And it kept building.
Yes, I know—you’re not supposed to show stress around children.
And especially not around babies.
They feed off what we project.
It shapes their personality—for better or for worse.
The entire taxi ride, I stayed quiet. I was lost in my own worries.
Even when the driver tried to make small talk, I made it clear pretty quickly that he should look elsewhere.
My mother, sitting in the back seat with Sara, stepped in and chatted with him to release some of the tension.
While I was running through my options in case those Iranian criminals actually followed through on their threats and launched missiles, I was also scanning the area—trying to identify safe spaces near the clinic we were approaching.
Meanwhile, Sara slept peacefully in her car seat in the back.
So I can’t really know if she felt the negative current inside me.
But it’s very possible that once we got out of the taxi and I carried her in my arms… she could feel her father was a little more jumpy than usual.
My mood didn’t improve when we walked into a waiting room packed with patients.
I was a bundle of nerves, holding my little crown princess in my arms—like a tiny antenna tuned perfectly to my worst frequency.
So far, she hadn’t shown any unusual signs of distress.
Just normal baby impatience—the kind that can be solved with the rocking-chair trick.
When I paid the receptionist for the exam, she read me like an open book and said:
“Relax, Dad.”
She said it without me even speaking a word.
I wasn’t blessed with a poker face.
Everything shows on me—sometimes way too much.
My experienced mother noticed too. She knew that in moments like these, the best thing you can do is let go and wait until the storm passes.
But the tension inside me kept spreading.
Growing.
Tightening.
When She Screams, I Lose Myself
The explosion came during the doctor’s exam.
And, not surprisingly—it didn’t come from me.
It’s important to mention that during her first few months, Sara got several vaccinations.
They were all very painful and made her cry in a way that tore my heart apart.
From talking to other moms at the local baby clinic, I understood that this reaction is normal—that pretty much all babies react that way.
So I tried not to worry.
What shocked me at the orthopedist’s office was that the ultrasound exam wasn’t painful at all.
At worst, it was mildly uncomfortable.
But Sara’s reaction was completely hysterical.
Uncontrolled.
Explosive.
It was the first time in three months that I saw her fall apart like that—and none of my attempts to calm her down worked.
Sara’s hysteria drove me insane.
Of course no parent likes watching their baby suffer.
But in those moments, I felt like I was losing my mind.
I struggled to comfort her while I was burning from the inside.
Because she can feel everything I’m projecting.
My mother, who was also in the room, understood that it was time for her to become the responsible hysterical adult.
In a calm voice and with a gentle smile, she reassured us that everything was okay and that the exam would be over soon.
And that was exactly what Sara needed.
Her prophecy came true.
In my heart, I thanked my mother for being there—and for the fact that the exam ended with a positive result.
We left the clinic with people staring at us—some with sympathy and understanding, others with judgment and impatience.
None of it mattered to me.
All I wanted was to get home safely—close to our safe room.
Nothing I say will justify my behavior.
I just know that a long time ago—before I was old enough to understand what I was feeling—I learned what pressure sounds like, what anxiety looks like, and how panic can pass from one person to another without a single word.
I’m not blaming anyone.
I’m simply realizing how those things were burned into me—and how they shaped who I became.
Every child wants to believe their parent is made of iron.
And when that cracks… it sinks deep.
Later in life, it comes back to us—sometimes like a boomerang…
And in the worst cases—right in front of our own children.
I’ll say it again: it’s not easy to change what’s carved into our mental DNA.
It takes much more than consistent self-work—or even medication.
No matter how hard we try—at some point, usually at the worst possible moment… it breaks out.
As parents, we’re not supposed to show fragility when our children are around.
We’re supposed to be in control.
Always.
We’re supposed to project calm and safety.
I know that.
So I’m going to keep working on myself—harder than ever—to try and defeat my mental genetics… hoping this isn’t a battle that was lost before it even began.
Because if there’s anyone in the world worth changing for—
It’s her.
My beloved daughter, Sara.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
Sara and Me 
I just finished reading Hereditary Hysteria on saraandme.com, and I wasn’t expecting a routine doctor visit story to hit me this hard emotionally. What starts as a simple narrative about a pediatric appointment quickly becomes a deep, honest reflection on anxiety, family patterns, and how our emotional baggage can show up in the most vulnerable moments.
What stood out most was this line:
“A person’s basic nature doesn’t suddenly transform overnight, even when life flips upside down and they become a father.”
It really captures the tension between who we want to be and who we actually are when stress takes over.
The author’s vulnerability — especially in scenes like waiting for the ultrasound and watching his daughter react — makes the writing feel incredibly real. There’s no sugarcoating, just honest self-examination and a raw look at how anxiety doesn’t disappear even when we try to hide it.
This is one of those posts that stays with you long after you’ve read it — emotional and thoughtful, without being melodramatic.
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Hereditary Hysteria is one of those essays that quietly disarms you. It doesn’t raise its voice, it doesn’t chase drama — and that’s exactly why it works.
What begins as a mundane medical appointment slowly unfolds into a meditation on emotional inheritance. Not genetics in the clinical sense, but the kind that lives in tone, posture, breath. As the author writes, “She doesn’t understand fear — but she feels it.” That sentence alone reframes the entire piece.
What’s striking is the refusal to offer comfort or resolution. There’s no lesson neatly tied with a bow. Instead, there’s an honest admission: “Becoming a father didn’t rewrite who I am.” The anxiety doesn’t vanish; it simply finds a new context.
The power of the piece lies in its restraint. It trusts the reader to sit with discomfort, to recognize themselves in the silence between generations. It’s intimate without being indulgent, reflective without self-pity.
This isn’t just a parenting story. It’s a reminder that some things are passed down long before we have language for them — and that noticing them might be the first real act of care.
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I didn’t expect Hereditary Hysteria to feel so familiar. It reads like a personal essay, but what it really does is hold up a mirror.
The piece is powerful because it admits something many parents are afraid to say out loud: “I didn’t suddenly become a calmer person just because I became a father.” That honesty cuts through the usual narratives about transformation and growth.
One moment that really stuck with me was the realization that “fear doesn’t need words to be passed on.” The idea that a child can absorb anxiety simply by being near it is unsettling — and the author doesn’t soften that truth.
There’s no self-congratulation here, no attempt to present a ‘better version’ of oneself. Instead, the writing stays grounded in uncertainty, asking hard questions without pretending to have answers.
This is a thoughtful, uncomfortable, and deeply human read — especially for anyone who has ever wondered what parts of themselves their children are already carrying.
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