I was a brand new speaker preparing a talk that I had struggled to put together for over a year. There I sat, tapping my pencil on another blank sheet of paper next to a growing pile of crumpled up ideas. I was out of time. In just a couple hours they were going to announce my name and hand me the microphone, but I had nothing of substance to offer. I was panicked, sick with the dread of disappointing my audience and embarrassing myself. The stress made writing impossible because I simply didn’t know what to say.

Years before, in an unrelated circumstance, I lay in bed wide awake. In the darkness of the morning’s small hours, I should’ve been sound asleep. Instead, I was consumed by anxiety, worried over something completely out of my hands. My teenage mind raced, and what began as a bothersome preoccupation rapidly became a tailspin. My mind was out of control, and I couldn’t calm my thoughts, much less get myself to sleep.

Do you ever fall into self-reliance? This delusion is an unwelcome, old friend of mine. It’s such a deep-rooted problem that I rarely remember I can ask for help. Under the slightest pressure, I put my trust in myself to find a solution, which means that when I’m out of my depth and can’t execute, I get more anxious.

But finding solutions doesn’t work that way. Offering and needing help are built into human nature, and as people made in the Image and Likeness of God, we will always need grace on this side of Heaven. In a compelling homily, St. Bernard urged the faithful to recognize this need, as well as the fact that our Heavenly Father gives us endless help and comfort through Mary:

If the winds of temptation blow, if you stumble against the reefs of tribulations, look at the star, call Mary. If you are agitated by waves of pride, of the ambition of murmuring of envy, look at the Star, call Mary. If anger, or avarice, or seduction of the flesh agitate the fragile ship of the soul, look at the Star, call Mary. If disturbed by the enormity of crimes, confused by the guilt of the soul, terrified by the severity of the judgment, you feel yourself pulled into the vortex of melancholy, into the abyss of despair, think of Mary. In dangers, in troubles, and doubts, think of Mary, call Mary.

St. Bernard’s command hasn’t failed me. Stuck there with a blank page before me, daunted by speaking so soon, I put my pencil on my notebook and slid them away from me. “Mary,” I whispered. “You write it. I have no idea what to say. What do you want me to say?” I grabbed my pencil and the words flowed clearly and effortlessly. Not only were several pages filled with content, I was giddy to get up on stage to share them! My nervousness dissolved. I was ready.

As an anxious teenager stuck on a wild ride of anxiety, unable to sleep behind eyes squeezed shut, my eyes flew open. “Mary,” I spoke boldly into the dark. “Mary.” Instantly my body relaxed, and my mind went quiet. Stunned by the sudden change, I tried to remember what had plagued my thoughts. I couldn’t remember.

So many of us are parents, familiar with the natural inclination to help our children in both the great and simple tasks in life. We’re ready to hug them tightly when they’re in pain and cheer them on when they try. Our Heavenly Mother has a particular love for every single one of us, and stands even more ready to console and love. We need only speak her lovely name to at once recognize our need for help, and her unfailing offer to give it.

Katie Sciba is a national speaker and Catholic Press Award-winning columnist. Katie has been married for 15 years and is blessed with six children.

This article appeared in the May 2024 edition of The Catholic Telegraph Magazine. For your complimentary subscription, click here.