Lindsey Culli vividly remembers the day in the fall of 2021 when she got a phone call from the counselor at her son’s Baltimore County public school alerting her that he had expressed a desire for self-harm. At the time, Calvin was a six-year-old first grader who was struggling to navigate the post-pandemic world, especially after spending his early education in front of screens.

“Calvin was one of those kids who was in kindergarten when the pandemic started,” Culli recalls. Though her son was academically high achieving, she believes that the social isolation of those years stunted his social and emotional growth. “He’s an introverted kid. He was feeling all these big feelings [at school] and he didn’t have a way to express it,” says Culli. “He was saying the most outrageous thing he could say, which terrified the guidance counselor because he started talking about self-harm.”

Naturally, this alarmed his school counselor, who took his words seriously. Thankfully, it eventually became clear that Calvin didn’t have plans to actually harm himself. “He was just kind of grasping at, ‘What is the biggest thing I can say to get somebody to pay attention because I’m not okay. I don’t know the language to talk about what’s wrong. I just know that something is.’”

Eventually, Calvin’s “big feelings” escalated to a point that Culli and Sam, Calvin’s father, decided it was time to seek professional help. Fortunately, Calvin’s school had an arrangement with a private practice therapy group that saw students during the day. His therapist diagnosed him with anxiety and began helping him learn tools to manage it.

“He started seeing a therapist that spring and it was really helpful pretty much right away,” says Culli. “[His therapist] gave him the toolbox that he needed and started putting tools in his toolbox to be able to recognize the emotions he was feeling and name them [and] work through them. That is hard when you’re an adult, but it’s especially hard when you’re only six! He’s come a really long way and it’s a testament to the therapy that he’s gotten and the people that he’s been able to work with.”

Today, Calvin is an active 10-year-old. He still struggles with anxiety—Culli thinks it is likely part of his wiring as someone who strives to be high-achieving. The difference is, when he gets those “big feelings,” he knows how to process them. Best of all, Culli has watched Calvin grow into the creative, empathetic, and thriving kid she always knew him to be.

“We named Calvin after the [comic strip] Calvin and Hobbes,” says Culli. “It turns out he’s actually a lot like the comic book Calvin! He’s very creative. He’s very bright. He’s also a really good friend. He has so much empathy, which probably hinders his mental health a little bit because he takes on other people’s feelings and emotions. I think it’s both a strength and also a challenge to be an empathetic and compassionate person in a world that can be so tough. But now he has the tools to manage it.”

Calvin’s experience with anxiety as a young child is not unique. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), about 10 percent of children between the ages of three and 17 have a diagnosed anxiety disorder. Experts contend that it’s normal for kids to experience occasional anxiety about stressful things like academics or social situations. But the National Institutes of Health (NIH) explains that anxiety becomes a disorder when it does not go away and its symptoms interfere with daily activities.

Biologically, the way our bodies experience anxiety is similar to the way we process fear. Fear keeps us safe from danger, preparing our bodies for “fight or flight.” Our heart and breathing quicken to boost oxygen flow to our brain. Our muscles tense up to prepare us to run, fight, or hide. Our minds zoom in with a laser focus on the threat to determine the best plan for safety. Anxiety is the body’s response to a perceived threat.

While this heightened state of awareness is helpful for actual danger, living in a state of high alert about unspecific future threats can be overwhelming—especially for children who may not have the tools to manage these feelings.

Krista Dhruv, LCSW-C, is an individual and family therapist and educational consultant based in Baltimore. She has served as a counselor in K 12 schools and higher education settings and has observed how anxiety presents in children of all different ages.

“Starting with our youngest kids, they might experience somatic symptoms, like belly aches, headaches, and disrupted sleep,” explains Dhruv. “It manifests physically because anxiety is in the body. It’s hormonal—cortisol and adrenaline, a hormonal response to perceived fear, metabolizes in the body. [Anxiety] also shows up as worry language: a lot of ‘what ifs’—‘What if you forget to pick me up? What if nobody wants to play with me? What if I eat something and it makes me sick?’”

Research suggests that the causes of childhood anxiety are complex. Some children may be more sensitive to strong emotions or have a biological tendency toward anxiety. For others, anxiety may develop as a reaction to a significant stressful event, like a death in the family. Environmental stressors, such as food insecurity, parents who fight or argue, or experiences of bullying, abuse, and neglect can also cause anxiety in young people.

Further, larger events and issues, such as climate change or global instability, may also impact children’s wellness—especially for older kids who may be more aware. An often-cited study conducted by the Pew Research Center indicates that more than half of teenagers are worried about a shooting happening at their school.

Other environmental factors inducing worry are, well, the environment. A recent survey published in The Lancet polled 10,000 young people across 10 countries, revealing that as many as 84 percent of respondents were worried about climate change, with 45 percent reporting that climate anxiety affected their daily lives.

Regardless of the constellation of causes behind anxiety, it is important to note that it is on the rise. A Department of Health and Human Resources report in 2022 noted that between 2016 and 2020, the number of children ages 3-17 years diagnosed with anxiety grew by 29 percent and those with depression by 27 percent.

This is important on many levels, not least of which is that a mental health condition is a risk factor for suicide, which is also on the rise among young people.

Increasingly, experts point to a growing cause of mental illness in young people: social media and phone use.  Jonathan Haidt, a social psychologist and author of The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness, claims that what he terms a “phone-based childhood” is to blame for a many of these unsettling youth mental health trends.

In fact, so great is the impact of social media that U.S. Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy recently called on Congress to require warning labels on social media sites to communicate their potential harms, especially for the developing adolescent brain. And Australia just passed a groundbreaking ban on a social media for children 16 and under.

Haidt likens young people’s unrestrained exploration of this new virtual frontier to launching our children to the planet Mars without first doing an appropriate amount of research to realize their bodies and minds are not suited to survive this alternate planet. The research he presents in his book posits that “overprotection in the real world and under-protection in the virtual world are the major reasons why children born after 1995 became the anxious generation.” Kids’ brains are literally being rewired during their crucial early, brain-building years.

“In this new phone-based childhood, free play, attunement, and local models for social learning are replaced by screen time, asynchronous [or non-real-time] interaction, and influencers chosen by algorithms. Children are, in a sense, deprived of childhood,” explains Haidt.

Anxiety can show up as what ifs: ‘What if you forget to pick me up?’ ‘What if nobody wants to play with me?’

Dhruv agrees and has observed the impact of screen time on today’s youth. “[Social media] is kind of experience where young people are socializing and interacting, but being that they’re online, the whole body isn’t involved—it’s disembodied. Young children aren’t outside as much playing and climbing trees—maybe even spraining an ankle. Kids aren’t taking healthy risks, which are imperative to healthy development.”

“These are normative life experiences that build our resilience and develop a growth mindset,” Dhruv continues. “When most of our [socializing and recreation] is happening online, whether it is video games or through social influencers, we lose that ability to take risks, social or physical or emotional, and to really experience failure as well as success, which is part of life.”

She echoes Haidt’s ideas about asynchronous interactions: “I might text you this morning about a funny thing that my dog did and you might not text me back until 3 o’clock today with a cute little emoji, which feels good.”

But something is off: Human beings aren’t meant to communicate via delayed reaction or strictly through our laptops or phones.

“We are wired to be in community and in connection,” she says. “We should be able to read body language. If I say something and a friend grimaces, I realize I probably shouldn’t say that again, or I should check in with her about that. [With online socializing], we lose all that nuance of the human experience.”

There is, however, a silver lining to the over-sharing that is often seen on social media. Experts note that children are increasingly likely to talk about their mental health with transparency, which is steadily chipping away at the stigma of mental illness. There are additional benefits to phone use and social media. For example, many kids who may feel marginalized due to their differences can more easily find their community online.

And experts are keen to note that the phone itself is not the enemy: If used responsibly, it’s a valuable tool to help us connect and make life easier. The key is to make sure parents place limits on the amount of time kids spend on screens and the content they view.

“The one positive about social media is that it allows access for a great deal more information,” explains Chad Lennon, MD, a child and adolescent psychiatrist for Sheppard Pratt. “People are communicating more about their mental health.”

Young people are more aware of mental illness—and the resources available to help.

“What has happened over the past 10, maybe 15, years or so is a complete shift. Now what we see that most of the people coming to us for services, whether it’s in a school environment or private practice, are already coming with the diagnostic language. They’re coming with deep attunement to their emotional experience, saying specifically, ‘I have anxiety,’ or ‘I think I’m neurodivergent,’ or ‘I’ve had this many years of treatment,’” shares Dhruv.

And therapy really does help. Calvin is a perfect example. The tools his therapist gave him were the key ingredients for helping him return to the thriving and intelligent kid his parents knew him to be.

“I think therapy is very helpful for everyone, but if you have anxiety, without [therapy], it can be hard to go through daily life and not get overwhelmed or upset,” says Calvin, with a thoughtfulness and maturity that belies his years. “Therapy has helped me to be able to be in certain places or spaces and without feeling afraid or anxious. I have more friends now and I can do things I think would be fun without being overwhelmed or afraid.”

For parents of children with anxiety, sometimes it’s hard to know what they can do to help. Lennon advises the following game plan: “First, parents really need to know themselves. The best way to help your own child is if you have a sense of your own emotional regulation,” he says. “Secondly, I’m really big on helping kids develop coping skills—and I use that term very generally because really anything can be a coping skill, as long as you know it helps you reduce your anxiety. Coping skills can be anything from playing a sport, going for a walk, taking a deep breath, reading or drawing, connecting with friends, even video games can be helpful, if used properly.

“[Thirdly,] connect with someone you trust,” shares Lennon, who adds that this doesn’t necessarily need to be a therapist. “This could be a parent, aunt, uncle, or coach. Helping a child connect to someone they trust helps them realize they are not alone, which goes a long way toward reducing anxiety.”

Therapist Krista Dhruv also advises that a great starting point for finding help for school-aged children is the school counselor and/or pediatrician. “The school counselor is a great first place to go,” she says. “They don’t necessarily know your child best, but they know this age range really well and can help you understand this developmental stage and what’s normative, typical, or atypical behavior.”

The family’s pediatrician is also trained to spot an anxiety disorder or help a family understand how to best help a child. Furthermore, they can examine if there is a physical cause for anxiety, especially when a child presents with somatic complaints. Finally, there’s a practical consideration for reaching out to the pediatrician: They can provide a referral for mental health services, which in many cases makes it easier for your health insurance to defray these expenses.

Fortunately, experts agree that most children with anxiety can reduce its impact through a combination of therapy, appropriate medication, and lifestyle changes.

ingle mom Megan Kelly, who lives in Ruxton, wanted something more than “just a daycare program” for her daughter Emerson, now four years old. “I wanted an engaging and stimulating preschool experience,” she explains, “something educational that would take advantage of Emerson’s sponge-like ability to learn and grow as a young child.”

A nurse at Mt. Washington Pediatric Hospital, Kelly understood the importance of the preschool years. “The brain develops so much in the first years of life,” Kelly says.

“These years matter.”

A product of a Montessori preschool herself, Kelly knew that she wanted Emerson to attend a program based on the teachings of Maria Montessori, an Italian physician and educator in the early 20th century. “I loved learning and gravitated to the Montessori environment, where I could follow my curiosity and learn at my own pace,” Kelly says. “I knew Emerson would thrive in a place like that, too.”

In particular, Kelly liked the mixed-age classrooms offered at Montessori schools. Educating the whole child, instead of focusing only on academic goals like learning letters and numbers, was another appealing feature.

“As crazy as it sounds for a young child, I wanted Emerson to start learning how to be a helpful, empathetic member of society,” Kelly says, “and to be socialized with children from diverse nationalities and cultures.”

“Young children are capable of more than we give them credit for,” says Katie Rooney, director of early childhood education at Irvine Nature Center, which runs The Nature Preschool. “In our program, students spend the bulk of time in nature and learn to be stewards of the environment.” They even go home and nudge their families to do things like cut down on waste and live a greener lifestyle, Rooney says.

Aside from a well-rounded curriculum, other factors mattered to Kelly as she searched for a fit—cost, location, hours, safety measures, and even outdoor play space.

As a healthcare provider, Kelly cares a lot about safety. Although she enrolled Emerson before the coronavirus pandemic started, she trusted the school’s approach to safety from the beginning. Others attest to the importance of trusting your child’s early learning provider.

“First and foremost, parents need to feel comfortable with the health and well-being of their child,” says Ameka Smith, executive director of early childhood at the Y of Central Maryland, which operates five preschools in and around Baltimore. But comfort doesn’t come easily when parents can no longer tour programs in-person or drop by to observe.

“Before COVID, parents could go into a center and see firsthand how children engage with teachers,” Smith says. “That’s not possible with virtual tours.”

Smith advises parents to spend time during or after a virtual tour talking to the director and teachers. “Get a sense of who they are as people and how they run their program and classroom,” she says. Ask how they communicate with parents—and how often. “Open, ongoing communication is crucial because it eases the anxiety families feel from not being able to pop in the classroom,” Smith explains. “It also helps parents support and extend their child’s learning at home.”

Make sure the curriculum is both age-appropriate and designed to foster skills like creativity and problem-solving, she says. “Some parents want to see step-by-step crafts like the perfect-looking reindeer or bunny,” Smith shares. “More meaningful art projects are thought-provoking and less teacher-directed.”

Natasha Morton, preschool director of the Y Preschool at Weinberg, advises parents to look for programs that value hands-on learning and movement.

“Preschoolers really should not be sitting down for more than 10 to 15 minutes straight for any kind of learning activity,” Morton says. “They need to be playing and interacting with their environment.”

Morton says parents sometimes misinterpret what it means for preschoolers to play. “Children learn all kinds of things through play,” she says, from social-emotional skills like sharing and taking turns to academic skills like naming colors and learning to count.

With countless preschools and childcare options in the Baltimore area, parents face a difficult decision and “ultimately need to figure out which one best fits your family,” says Morton, who has taught in or directed preschools for 29 years.

“Research has told us for a long time now that children learn best through play,” says Rooney of Irvine Nature Center. “Yet in our rushed lifestyles and inundation of information about what our kids should be doing—music lessons, art lessons, sports teams— unstructured play can get left out.”

The solution, Rooney says, is for teachers and parents to slow down and give kids time and space for unstructured, or free, play. “When we toss out our agendas and see the world through kids’ eyes, that’s when the deep learning, the magical stuff, happens.”

Starting Your Early Education Search

Here’s a list of selected schools and day care centers in the Baltimore area.

◆ Apple Ridge Montessori School
200 Ingleside Ave., Catonsville, MD 21228.
410-818-2000. appleridgemontessori.org.

◆ The Baltimore Montessori
Canton: 1001 S. Potomac St., Baltimore, MD 21224.
Locust Point: 1530 E. Fort Ave., Baltimore, MD 21230.
410-980-7449. thebaltimoremontessori.com.

◆ Beth El at Federal Hill
1530 Battery Ave., Baltimore, MD 21230.
410-528-6001. bethelbalto.com/beth-el-federal-hill.

◆ Beth Tfiolh
3300 Old Court Rd., Baltimore, MD. 21208.
410-486-1905. bethtfiloh.com/preschool.

◆ Bolton Hill Nursery School
204 W. Lanvale St., Baltimore, MD 21217.
410-728-0003. boltonhillnursery.org.

◆ Bright Horizons at Harbor Point
1201 Wills St., Baltimore, MD 21231.
877-624-4532. child-care-preschool.brighthorizons.com/md/baltimore/harborpoint.

◆ Calvert School
105 Tuscany Rd., Baltimore MD 21210.
410-243-6054. calvertschoolmd.org.

◆ Celebree Schools
1306 Bellona Ave., Lutherville, MD 21093 and other locations.
410-515-8650. celebree.com.

◆ Chapelgate Christian Academy
2600 Marriottsville Rd., Marriottsville, MD 21104.
410-442-5888. chapelgateacademy.org.

◆ A Child’s Place, Notre Dame of Maryland University
4701 N. Charles St., Baltimore, MD 21210.
410-532-5399. ndm.edu/childs-place.

◆ Children’s Magnet and Children’s Manor Montessori Schools
7105 Dogwood Rd., Windsor Mill, MD 21244 and other locations.
childrensmagnet.com.

◆ Columbia Academy
Multiple locations.
410-312-5233. columbiaacademy.com.

◆ Downtown Baltimore Child Care
237 Arch St., Baltimore, MD 21201.
410-659-0515. dbcckids.org.

◆ Dulaney Day Preschool
6915 York Rd., Baltimore, MD 21212.
410-377-2702. dulaneydayschool.com.

◆ Emmanuel Methodist Preschool
10755 Scaggsville Rd., Laurel, MD 20723.
301-725-6600. emmanuelpreschool.com.

◆ Garrison Forest School
300 Garrison Forest Rd., Owings Mills, MD 21117.
410-363-1500. gfs.org.

◆ Gilman School
5407 Roland Ave., Baltimore, MD 21210.
410-323-3800. gilman.edu.

◆ The Goddard School (Canton)
1000 S. Highland Ave., Baltimore, MD 21224.
443-842-5300. goddardschool.com.

◆ Goldsmith Early Childhood Center of Chizuk Amuno Congregation
8100 Stevenson Rd., Baltimore, MD 21208.
410-486-8642. chizukamuno.org.

◆ Govans Presbyterian Preschool
5826 York Rd., Baltimore, MD 21212.
410-435-8189. govanspres.org.

◆ Grace Preschool
5407 N. Charles St., Baltimore, MD 21210.
410-532-2235. gracepreschoolbaltimore.com.

◆ Greenspring Montessori School
10807 Tony Dr., Lutherville-Timonium,
MD 21093. 410-321-8555. greenspringmontessori.org.

◆ Harford Day School
715 Moores Mill Rd., Bel Air, MD 21014.
410-838-4848. harfordday.org.

◆ JCC Early Learning Center
3506 Gwynnbrook Ave., Owings Mills 21117.
410-559-3589. jcc.org.

◆ Kiddie Academy of Locust Point
1215 East Fort Ave., Baltimore, MD 21230.
667-930-3677. kiddieacademy.com/academies/locust-point/

◆ La Petite Academy of Baltimore
2434A W. Belvedere Ave., Baltimore, MD 21215.
888-330-2878. lapetite.com.

◆ The Park School of Baltimore
2425 Old Court Rd., Baltimore, MD 21208.
410-339-7070. parkschool.net.

◆ Peabody Preparatory
21 E. Mount Vernon Place, Baltimore, MD 21202.
667-208-6640. peabody.jhu.edu/preparatory/ways-to-study/departments/earlychildhood

◆ Redeemer Parish Day School
5603 N. Charles St., Baltimore, MD 21210.
410-435-9510. redeemerpds.org.

◆ St. Paul’s Schools
11152 Falls Rd., Brooklandville, MD 21093.
410-825-4400. stpaulsmd.org.

◆ Step By Step Children’s Learning Center
47 Loveton Cir., Sparks, MD 21152.
410-771-4151. stepbystepclc.com.

◆ Stoler Early Learning Center of the JCC of Greater Baltimore
3506 Gwynnbrook Ave., Owings Mills, MD 21117.
410-559-3554. jcc.org/elc.

◆ Towson Presbyterian Preschool
400 W. Chesapeake Ave., Towson, MD 21204.
410-337-2762. towsonprespreschool.org.

◆ Waldorf School
4801 Tamarind Rd., Baltimore, MD 21209.
410-367-6808. waldorfschoolofbaltimore.org.

◆ Woodbrook Early Education Center
25 Stevenson Ln., Baltimore, MD 21212.
410-377-8919. weecenter.net.

◆ Y of Central Maryland
Catonsville: 850 South Rolling Rd., Catonsville, MD 21228.
Towson: 301 W. Chesapeake Ave., Towson, MD 21204.
UMBC: 1000 Hilltop Circle, Baltimore, MD 21250.
Weinberg: 900 East 33rd St., Baltimore, MD 21218.
Y Chipmunks Preschool: 2102 Old Westminster Pike, Finksburg, MD 21048.
ymaryland.org.

Five years ago, long before he became what he is today—a rookie tight end with the Baltimore Ravens—Hayden Hurst stood alone on the elevated dirt of a pitcher’s mound in Bradenton, FL, the center of attention, as a 6-foot-5 hard-throwing major league pitching prospect making his first-ever spring training start.

The anxiety began in warmups. His thoughts raced. Who was watching him today? What would they think about him? The Pittsburgh Pirates had paid him a $400,000 signing bonus. How disappointed would they be if he didn’t live up to expectations?

Hurst’s heart pounded. His right hand trembled. His stomach was queasy. He felt blood rushing from his arms and legs. And his palm dripped an inordinate amount of sweat onto the baseball in his grip. Then he tried throwing it across home plate, 60 feet away.

Nerves rattling more than he ever felt before, Hurst walked all five batters he faced and threw two wild pitches in one terrifying inning. And that was just the beginning.

“It happened all the time, for three years. I was having panic attacks,” Hurst says. “I wanted nothing to do with being out there. I wanted to get away. I wanted to escape.”

Like he’d done as a high school star, Hurst just kept throwing hard, listening to his coaches, and hoping it would change—that what he’d always known how to do since he was an eighth-grader on the varsity team, to throw hard strikes (as a freshman he threw 90 miles per hour and was the winning pitcher in the state title game), would suddenly come back. That the dreaded yips, as the sudden loss of a skill is often called in sports, would disappear. But they never did.

Hurst’s thoughts of pitching in the major leagues quickly unraveled. That game, Hurst’s first professional start as a 19-year-old, was his last.

For the next two years, unbeknownst to even his family, any time he stepped near a mound, Hurst’s mind went haywire. But he attempted to fight through it, like he was trained to do as a young, tough, strong athlete in and around the private Bolles School in Jacksonville. He masked the type of anguish he really felt.

“Everything’s fine,” he told his parents when they called to ask how things were going. These were physical issues, he said. He believed that, too, even though the anxiety from the pitcher’s mound had begun to translate into depression off the field. By the spring of 2014, Hurst’s preferred way to spend a day was in the dark watching television inside his dorm room, avoiding people.

Then, one day in a practice game, Hurst unintentionally hit an Orioles’ prospect, coincidentally, in the helmet with a 94 mile-per-hour fastball, a pitch hard enough to knock the batter unconscious. That made everything worse. Hurst had totally lost control. Of his fastball. Of his mind. Of his body. And, with no exaggeration or hyperbole, his life.

“It’s such a darkness that comes over you,” Hurst says of the depression he sunk into, his baseball dreams disappearing with no alternative outcome in sight. “You don’t want to go anywhere or do anything, and you don’t ever think you’re going to get out of it. It’s the worst feeling in the world, and I don’t wish it upon anybody.”

Hurst’s pitching coach with the Pirates, former major leaguer Scott Elarton, phoned Hurst’s dad, Jerry: “You need to come see your son.”

“He didn’t want to disappoint us,” his mom, Cathy says. “He didn’t want to feel like a failure, so he internalized everything. We were shocked at how far down he’d gotten.”

Sitting across from Hurst at an outdoor patio table overlooking the practice field at the Ravens’ training facility, it’s clear that brighter times have now arrived. He appears more imposing than he does on television, where he runs alongside athletic giants of his similar 6-foot-5, 245-pound size.

When he’s on the football field, with a red beard and a long mane of ginger shoulder-length hair that protrudes from the back of his purple and black helmet, paired with mammoth muscular arms, Hurst is downright Viking-like. He certainly doesn’t fit Hollywood’s stereotypical description of a person who has struggled with his or her mental health.

But that’s really the point—of why he’s here on a sun-splashed afternoon in Owings Mills, calmly describing the painful details of his history with anxiety and depression, and why it’s so important for him to talk about it—instead of addressing more trivial locker room topics like curl routes, blocking assignments, or next Sunday’s game.

“In sports, you hear, ‘We have to be tough men, we can’t talk about mental health.’ Or ‘If you seek help, it’s weakness.’” Hurst says, wearing his purple number 81 jersey, his elbows on the lunch table making straight eye contact. “I think that’s a load of crap now. It’s incredible that it affects so many people, and in so many different ways. It needs to be talked about.”

So he’s talking. Hurst wants other people to learn from his story, to help rip the stigma off mental health treatment, to encourage teenagers, young adults, or anyone else to find some hope and support in his tale. He was a teenage, multi-sport, all-star athlete. “He was always the big-name guy, the big pitcher,” says his friend and former high school teammate, the Orioles’ D.J. Stewart.

Hurst felt pressure, then confusion, fright, and hopelessness, when everything he worked for slipped away. Then he found awareness, of what anxiety and depression really is, and make a choice to triumph, by finally accepting what was tearing him up inside and ditching a professional baseball career to head to college at almost 22 years old with the idea of starting over as a football player.

Just months after the official end of Hurst’s baseball flameout—when, at the start of his third year of spring training, he walked off the mound after hitting the fence with yet another pitch in a practice session and sobbed in the clubhouse, he walked on the football team at the University of South Carolina.

And after just three years there, two as a starter, Hurst became one of the top collegiate tight ends in the nation. He joined the Ravens in April when they selected him in the first round of the 2018 NFL draft, seven picks before quarterback Lamar Jackson.

Hurst may still be making his name on the field—he missed the first four games of the season with a foot injury and, as the second tight end on the Ravens’ depth chart, his stats for the year are 10 receptions for 102 yards and a touchdown. His best game came against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers this past Sunday, when he caught three passes for 20 yards, and screamed and pumped his fists after one of them. He’s not a superstar (yet), but as a more mature and hardened 25-year-old rookie, he’s already embraced the visibility and platform that comes with having an NFL roster spot of any kind.

In September, Hurst launched The Hayden Hurst Family Foundation, a nonprofit whose mission is to help adolescents in Baltimore, as well as Columbia, SC, where Hurst went to college, and Jacksonville, his hometown, deal with mental health struggles. His mom has retired from a 30-plus-year sales career to help run the foundation.

Approximately one in five adults in the United States experiences mental illness in a given year, according to the National Alliance of Mental Illness. And one in five children ages 13 to 18 have or will have a serious mental illness, with 75 percent of all cases beginning by age 24.

Yet a stigma about addressing mental health in public, or private, remains, especially in the testosterone-inundated world of pro sports. “When I was going through it, I didn’t think that I would have ever talked about it,” Hurst says. But add his name to growing list of elite athletes that are speaking out, doing their part to soften the taboo, and shed some light on why and how to seek help.

Former Ravens players Steve Smith and Jamal Lewis, basketball’s Kevin Love and DeMar Derozan, and hockey goalie Robin Lehner of the New York Islanders have all shared their stories. Like Love, Hurst wrote a first-person account of his struggles in The Players’ Tribune. It’s titled “The Things You Can Control.” And he’s talked about it in articles for BaltimoreRavens.com and Bleacher Report. Other high-profile athletes like former world No. 1 tennis player Novak Djokovic are more private, but have cited their mental health as reasons for stepping away from their respective games.

“You never really know what someone else is going through,” Hurst says, “Even my own family.”

It wasn’t until almost two years into his pro baseball nightmare that Hurst honestly spoke to his family, first his father, about his real struggles—and that he then learned of theirs.

His father, a former Jacksonville University baseball player, still suffers from obsessive compulsive disorder and panic attacks, that also began when he was in his 20s. “My dad told me his history, how he saw therapists, and how it helped him,” Hurst says. “My sister as well. I had no idea she had seen therapists all throughout high school.”

There were tragedies, too. Hurst’s uncle, Dennis, was an alcoholic and committed suicide. So did his cousin, D.J. Hurst. Both struggled with anxiety and depression. Becoming aware of the family history—some research suggests a majority of mental health disorders are inheritable, but they can be caused by other circumstances, too—was one of the first steps for Hurst to start addressing his own struggles.

“When I was younger, I didn’t really notice it. I thought it was just nerves,” Hurst says. “The older I got, I could see some things in myself, and some signs in my dad, but we really didn’t talk about it until I started going through it, where we felt like we could relate and we could talk about it.”

In Florida, as Hurst tried to figure out what was wrong with him, he visited eight different doctors and made more than 70 different appointments, spending thousands of dollars.

He didn’t really like talk therapy, but it helped. “I didn’t want to admit that I was weak,” Hurst says. “But the biggest thing is just talking to people, getting it out there, and addressing the issue.” He tried anything in addition, though, even hypnotism. That didn’t work, nor did another technique called tapping—on his forehead to unlock his mind.

A psychiatrist that the Pirates recommended diagnosed Hurst with attention deficit disorder, and recommended he take Prozac. Hurst balked at medication, primarily because he thought antidepressants had contributed to his cousin’s suicide, though Hurst understands that antidepressants have helped other people.

The Pirates’ sports psychologist suggested that Hurst keep a journal as a way to express his emotions. Of all the suggestions for addressing his mental pain, that’s the one that worked most for him. He wrote every day for two and a half years, “just to get it out, kind of like I was talking to somebody,” he says.

A sampling: “I do not know why but I feel as though everything has gone to shit,” Hurst wrote in mid-June 2014. “I feel nervous and unable to focus. I can’t get remotely close to obtaining the badass in me. And I have been doing a poor job at separating it on and off the field. I am lost, losing faith, and searching for answers and stability in my life. This is getting hard to face each day and to be honest I feel like giving up. Why me? What have I done to deserve these 2 years of confirmed hell?”

Hurst signed himself up for a third and final year of spring training to try to make things right in his baseball life one more time, afraid of disappointing the organization and his family. He tried and tried until he finally gave up after yet another unsuccessful throwing session. He and Elarton cried when Hurst couldn’t even have a simple catch. He’d had enough.

In May 2014, he called the Pirates’ director of minor league operations Larry Broadway to tell him he was quitting. “Well, I hope there’s something you can stick to in your life,” Broadway said. The words stung.

By this time, Hurst had already started to seriously think about playing football. He bulked up by 20 pounds lifting weights in the Pirates weight room, and had already called one of his childhood friends, Perry Orth, who was the backup quarterback at the University of South Carolina, to ask him how things were going there, and float the idea of joining him.

Hurst played only one year of football in high school, as a junior at Bolles, before his mom told him he should really decide between baseball and football, in case he got hurt in the latter, which would have prevented him from pursuing the former. And baseball, after all, was what everyone told him he would make millions playing, his natural talent for throwing a 95 mile-per-hour fastball and all. It was an ambitious pivot.

“You’re crazy,” Cathy Hurst told her son when he said he wanted to head to college and try to play football. But it was what he wanted to do. She now reflects back on the turning point and says, “It gave him hope.”

“I knew that I wasn’t ready to stop dreaming,” Hurst wrote in The Players’ Tribune. “As long as there was the smallest chance that I could keep playing sports, that was enough.”

Given Hurst’s size and speed—he could run the 40-yard dash in about 4.55 seconds—Orth convinced South Carolina assistant coach Steve Spurrier Jr. to consider giving Hurst a chance, and he was offered a walk-on spot.

“I always had a feeling deep down that I was going to be really good at football,” Hurst says. “I got burned out from baseball, going through that for three years. And maybe having baseball taken away from me fueled my fire for football. It made me pretty determined. That’s kind of why I play the way that I do.”

At South Carolina, Hurst played wide receiver for a year before a new coaching staff led by Will Muschamp took over and moved Hurst to tight end. He put his natural athleticism to work right away, setting program single-season records for catches (48) and receiving yards (616) by a tight end, and was the first sophomore to be named a captain in team history.

“The fear and anxiety I’d at one point associated with pitching had been replaced by a sense of joy and freedom I experienced on the football field,” Hurst says. “I felt in my element again.”

After catching 44 passes for 559 yards as junior, with one year of college eligibility remaining, he declared for the NFL draft, and was considered one of the best prospects at his position. He was a captain again and a first-team All-SEC pick. Former Heisman Trophy winner Tim Tebow, a college football TV analyst, even named Hurst his “Freak of the Week,”—a compliment—during the season.

On draft day, he hugged his mom and dad hard after Ravens general manager Ozzie Newsome called, and NFL commissioner Roger Goodell announced Hurst’s name on television as the 25th overall selection. The millions he thought he’d always make in baseball now came from a football team, and he was happier. His four-year contract guarantees him $10 million.

“As awful as it was for those three years in baseball,” Hurst says. “I’m kind of thankful I went through it, because it made me stronger, that’s for sure.”

The foot injury, a stress fracture which occurred at the end of an impressive preseason, set Hurst back and he’s essentially blended in this year as part of a four-man tight end rotation, but just this week coach John Harbaugh spoke with optimism about Hurst’s future, and his three catches last Sunday.

“His confidence has been good all along, but he was chomping at the bit for an opportunity to prove it,” Harbaugh said. “He made a couple big, tough catches out there, and you could see it in his emotions [that] it mattered to him. Like, ‘Finally, I had a chance to show what I can do here!’ That’s just going to make him even more hungry to do more. That’s what you want to see as a coach.”

About three months ago, on a warm mid-September Monday night, an off day for the Ravens, Hurst stood inside on the basketball court at Towson University’s SECU Arena, looking up in the bleachers at close to 500 of the school’s athletes, not at all much younger than his 25 years.

He was there as part of an event put on by the “We’re All A Little Crazy” Global Health Mental Alliance, which has visited college campuses nationwide to raise awareness and break the stigma associated with talking about mental health. Hurst is one of many athletes and celebrities to serve as ambassadors.

“How do you work through your depression and anxiety now?” Darren Rovell, the former ESPN sports business reporter and the event’s moderator, asked Hurst as part of a question-and-answer session.

He leans on his family—The Core Four, they call themselves—of his parents and sister. And his dog helps, too, a Border Collie. Hurst also talked about his journal, the pages and pages he began writing at rock-bottom in Florida.

Afterward, students asked questions and Hurst fielded one from a Towson softball player.

“How do you find time to write in a journal?”

Hurst, on this night his Viking hair tied back in a bun, looked right at her.

“You make time,” he said. “For me, that’s my therapy.”

So is football.

Back at the Ravens’ training facility after a mid-week practice, Hurst explains that for as nervous, anxious, and panicked he was on the pitcher’s mound all those years ago, he’s just as excited to wear a helmet and pads and run out onto M&T Bank Stadium’s field.

“I never had an issue in football with it,” Hurst says. “It’s two separate sports. Baseball is slow. When you’re a pitcher, you have the ball in your hand and you control the flow of the game. For me, tight end is different, and football is such a different sport. You get to run around and hit people, catch a pass. I feel like I can take out my aggression out there.”

When he returned home to Jacksonville after quitting baseball, broken-hearted, gut-wrenched, and unsure exactly where he was headed, Hurst had one question: “Can I have that picture?”

He was looking at a painting that had been in the family for decades. A Phoenix, the mythical bird that symbolized rebirth and renewed youth. A friend of Hurst’s parents painted it when they were all in high school together. The Phoenix was their mascot.

“Absolutely,” his mom said, and the painting now hangs in Hurst’s house in Baltimore. He walks by it after every practice and game. The Phoenix, rising again.

“It’s a reminder of how strong he was,” Cathy Hurst says, “that he could pull himself out of the embers, and have this opportunity in a whole new life.”

About six weeks ago, during that late summer time sandwiched between camp and school, my husband, my sons in-law, and I, took five grandchildren to the beach. (Three shared grandchildren and the in-laws’ other two.) They ranged in age from 4 to 10.

At 7 a.m. on day two of the trip, as we adults sipped our first cups of coffee and the kids pleaded for more Pop-Tarts, my 10-year-old granddaughter hand-delivered an invitation to each of us that read,

“Come to Sticky’s and Gummy’s funeral. It’s in my room at 7:30. Wear black.”

Sticky and Gummy were the 5-cent slimy, crystalline creatures that she “won” at an amusement arcade the previous evening. (Given the amount of money we spent, I could have flown to Vietnam and bought them directly from the manufacturer.) The figurines met their demise when one of my grandsons stretched them to the point of dismemberment. My granddaughter screamed, “Why did you do that?” Her brother apologized, “I was just playing. I didn’t think they’d break.” She accepted his apology but insisted on a proper funeral.

Just as the caffeine began to kick in, she shooed us into her makeshift bedroom, a walk-in closet with a mattress, where all nine of us scrunched together to pay our last respects. My husband delivered the eulogy.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the short lives of Sticky and Gummy . . .”

I tried to keep a solemn countenance but couldn’t. The in-laws caught my eye and began to giggle. Soon, even the kids registered the absurdity of the situation and we all broke into full-belly laughter. It was the first time, since our arrival, that I had let myself relax.

Taking my grandchildren to the beach in my 60s was a far cry from taking my children there in my 20s. The walk from the condo to the water was longer. The softer, potholed sand was harder to navigate. The beach chairs and umbrellas were heavier. The sun was hotter, and the noise was louder. I no longer enjoyed small hands wielding big shovels burying any of my body parts in the sand. And I didn’t want to fill and refill buckets with water for castles that couldn’t help but collapse. I just wanted to read my book.

I could deal with the commotion, heat, and exhaustion. It was the responsibility for their safety that put me over the edge. We spread our blanket in front of the life guard’s feet. We forced the kids to wear Coast Guard-approved life jackets. We sprayed them every hour, from head to toe, with SPF-100 sunscreen. There were four adults watching five children. And I was still a nervous wreck.

I dragged my beach chair to the shallow waters. Sitting upright, I shaded my eyes with my hand, and tried to keep track of all five children. Again, and again, I counted out loud, “One, two, three, four, five. One, two three four five . . .” I watched for the undertow that would sweep a child out to sea; the jellyfish with the poisonous sting; the fin of a great white; or, the kidnapper disguised as a fellow beach goer.

Grandparent angst is not limited to vacations. For me, it began with the birth of my granddaughter. I quickly learned that, in addition to my own angst, I had to deal with a higher authority—her parents. I had to follow their rules (at least in their presence) and use pre-approved contraptions, like the “one touch collapsible” stroller—it took months before I learned how to finagle it into my trunk.

And the regulation car seat with all its straps and belts—I never did figure out how to install that. In desperation, I paid a local firefighter to install it for me. I called him again when my daughter-in-law told me to change it from back-facing to front-facing. For years afterward, we took my husband’s car if we were driving another couple to dinner. I wasn’t messing with that car seat.

Now, my grandchildren were past the infant and toddler stages. This vacation was an opportunity to connect with them as people. Yet, I had allowed hypothetical dangers to distract me from actual joys. Our laughter at the funeral for those cheap figurines slapped me into the moment. If I wanted more of those moments—I needed to ease up.

For the remaining couple of days, I allowed myself to be present. While we dealt with strep throat, pink eye, and sea lice, we also converted the kitchen island into a Ping-Pong table and held tournaments. We built sand tunnels and collected seashells. We had a salami and egg cook-off and dessert at every meal.

After breakfast, on the last day of the trip, my grandson turned to me and said, “Bubbie, can we stay here forever?” I hugged him and answered, “Forever, no. But, hopefully next summer.” I’m already looking forward to it.

When we buried Sticky and Gummy, I buried my angst. Well—most of it at least.

Welcome to “Life Lines,” a new column on aging gracefully by writer Laura Black.

The Eastern Shore bike shop was jam-packed with merchandise. I combed through mazes of racing bikes, mountain bikes, road bikes and even bicycles-built-for two. But, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Before too long, a pony-tailed salesman with tattoo-covered biceps greeted me and asked, “Can I help you?”

And, in the same voice I used the first time I asked a male drugstore clerk for a box of tampons, I muttered, “Do you have any adult tricycles?”

To his credit, he didn’t laugh, “Give me a minute, I think there’s one in the back.” And, before I had time to change my mind, he came out with a red three-wheeler. It looked like an adult-sized version of the ones I bought my kids when they were toddlers—minus those multi-colored plastic strips hanging off the handlebars.

“Let’s take it out to the parking lot so you can give it a try.”

Hoping no one else was watching, I climbed upon the seat and pedaled. I hated it. It was heavy and unwieldy—not an acceptable replacement for my two-wheeled Schwinn. I love that bike, with its fat tires, cushy seat, and clunky wire basket that holds my water bottle, lock, and purse. But I’ve been afraid to ride it since my fall last summer.

My husband and I were riding our bikes to breakfast. As we approached the restaurant, he took a sharp right turn, over the curb and into the parking lot. I tried to follow. But, the next thing I knew, I was splayed on the ground as awkward as a lineman in a tutu.

Passersby offered help, and I declined with embarrassment. Charles lifted the bike off my chest, and we assessed the damage: bruises and blood, but nothing gushy nor stitch-worthy. (Though later, my left knee swelled, seemingly with humiliation, and I had to have it drained.)

Charles helped me to my feet and after, “You okay?” He said, “Honey, your bike was parallel to the curb, that’s why you fell. You should have turned the wheel and crossed it at a right angle.” I thought, “How was I supposed to know?” And in that moment, my confidence as a cyclist collapsed. I walked the bike home and buried it in the back of our storage closet. I have not touched it for over a year—and, I miss it.

Unless I count walking, biking was my only outdoor activity. (I never mastered tennis, diving, hiking, surfing, skiing, to name a few alternatives.) At the beach, I would ride up and down Coastal Highway, exploring bayside and oceanfront communities. I’d cycle south to the Boardwalk and north to downtown Bethany. On a trip to Wyoming, Charles, my daughter, and I pulled over for a herd of buffalo as we biked the mountain trails. And, in Vancouver, I rode with my sister and our daughters around the Seawall Trail in Stanley Park.

Biking has allowed me to see myself as active. Now, since the fall, I am afraid to ride—and, afraid not to. A tricycle, with its two back wheels for balance, was a last-ditch attempt to resurrect my self-image.

When I’m honest with myself, I must admit that the problem is bigger than bicycling. Like another wrinkle between my brows, anxiety has marred my self-assurance: I hesitate before driving my rental car on I-95 from Miami to Delray Beach. I hang my trifocals from my blouse before stepping on steep escalators. And, I go out of my way to avoid walking in ice and snow.

I concede apprehension—but, fear capitulation. Isn’t giving up, giving in? I do not want to succumb to self-imposed limitations. I have little control over the insidious losses that come with aging—but, I can control how I handle them. I can choose fight over flight.

When I return from the tricycle fiasco, I drag my Schwinn out of the storage closet, pump air into its tires and toss my stuff into the basket. Grabbing the black rubber handlebars, I maneuver it into the elevator and out to the street. Then, I buckle the strap of my helmet under my chin and straddle the seat. Inhaling courage, exhaling fear—I pedal north on Coastal Highway. I am free. Turns out, it’s just like riding a bike.

I am a worrier. A serious, anxious, sky-is-falling, doomsday scenario level worrier. Worrying is probably an important, biological emotion for parents to help save small children from themselves, but being a worrier in 2018 is pretty brutal. If you have an internet connection and access to social media or a news site (and I know you do, because this column only runs online), you run the risk of reading horrible, seemingly impossible stories about ways kids can get hurt.

Because of the World Wide Web, I know things that can’t be unlearned, like that toddlers can crawl into front-loading washing machines, close the door, and get stuck inside. Or that babies can fall head first into the toilet and not be able to pull themselves out. Or that button batteries are shiny harbingers of death, and the only way to combat them if swallowed is to feed spoonfuls of honey to your child while you race them to the hospital—but in your haste don’t forget that babies under 12 months can’t have honey because of botulism, so just don’t ever, ever let your eyes wander away from your kid.

It’s exhausting.

The mild irony to all of this is that I was not nearly as worried with my first kid. Lou is a pretty low-key guy, and as a young toddler he didn’t get into much trouble. We had a two-month spat of Lou falling directly onto the same spot on his forehead multiple times (resulting in a little divot he still has to this day), but otherwise we slapped a few plastic locks on particularly dangerous cabinets in the house and moved on.

Our daughter, however, is a nut. She’s fully walking at ten months, into everything, and has more energy than her three other family members combined. She’s illuminated household dangers we never considered during Lou’s babyhood. Our gas fireplace is filled with small rocks about the size of a toddler’s windpipe and we didn’t notice this until last week when she started pulling them out. I threw a blanket over them, making a mental note to remove it in December, but Edie outsmarted my complex solution by dragging the blanket out and returning to her rock gathering.

We also weren’t aware that the heavy, bulky stool in our kitchen might be a danger until she used it to pull herself to standing (at six months) and cracked her cheekbone as she and the stool fell in tandem. It’s very subtle, but you might notice the shiner in the picture below. As her doctor was leaving the exam we heard him say to the nurses, “Did you see the black eye on that kid?”

This child has forced my abstract fears into actionable items. We’ve done the obvious things like remove as many tiny toys as we can find and install a fenced-in area for the times we have to do things like cook meals or pour a fortifying glass of wine, but there’s more work to be done. Here’s a small list of items that will help protect your kid and ease your weary hearts, at least until the next story breaks about how baby-proofing will turn your child into a serial killer or guarantee low ACT scores.

Corner protectors
Protect your furniture and your kid’s eyeballs. We’ve stuck these on every right angle in the house and they’ve already downgraded multiple injuries from “Hospital Trip” to “Here’s A Popsicle You’re Fine”.

Toilet Paper Roll
Not only is this an easily obtained toy for babies, it’s also a free metric of toy safety. If your kid is playing with something that can fit inside of a roll, take it away because it means they can choke on it.

Portable Play Yard
As previously mentioned, sometimes you need a moment to yourself. The Summer Infant play yard is super light weight and can be pulled out or closed and shoved back into the corner in seconds.

Masking tape
This one isn’t super safety-related, but it’s another weird household item trick so I’m including it. Take a piece and roll it sticky side out, then stick it to your kid’s foot. If you’re lucky, they’ll find themselves in a fully-immersive ten minute crash course on how adhesives and chubby fingers interact, and you can tidy up or solve world hunger or do whatever it was you did before you had kids.

Play Mat
Ikea has a reasonably-priced version (and this fancy mat promises to not poison your child with unpronounceable chemical horrors if you care about that kind of thing). Play mats are squishy but firm and perfect for babies who are learning to crawl and walk. If your home has wood or tile floors, you might also consider interlocking foam tiles.

Door jams
Save tiny fingers from tiny splints.

OutSmart Locks
What I appreciate about these is the decoy button specifically designed to make your kid think they have a shot in hell at breaking into the cabinet and going to town on your Tide Pod stash. Take that, babies.