The Worry Whisper follows a young girl who is anxious about reading aloud in class, and with the help of her little brother and grandmother, she learns how to manage her feelings. When did you first imagine the “worry whisper” as a bird?

The idea of the “worry whisper” as a bird came to me quite naturally—and, in many ways, from my own childhood.

I was an anxious child. I didn’t have the language for it then, but I remember how it showed up in small, everyday moments. I would overcompensate in ways that felt automatic—talking really fast when I was nervous, or doodling when what I actually wanted was to be quiet and still. There was always this subtle hum in the background, something I couldn’t quite name but could definitely feel.

When I began shaping the story, I wanted to give that feeling a form—something a child could see and relate to without fear. A bird felt right. It can appear unexpectedly, perch close by, and make itself heard in different ways—sometimes softly, sometimes more insistently. That’s what worry felt like to me. Present, persistent, but not something that needed to be chased away.

More than anything, I wanted children to understand that worry isn’t something to silence or fight. It’s something to notice, to understand, and to gently learn how to live alongside. The “worry whisper” as a bird wasn’t a single moment of invention—it was a quiet recognition of something I had known all along.

What inspired you to reframe worry as something to listen to rather than fight?

That shift came from both lived experience and reflection over time.

For a long time, I treated worry as something to get rid of—as if the goal was to silence it completely. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized that fighting it often made it louder. It would show up in different ways—restlessness, overthinking, that urge to rush through things or fill the silence. The resistance didn’t quiet it; it amplified it.

Over time, I began to see worry differently—not as an enemy, but as a signal. Something in me was asking for attention, for care, for a pause. When I stopped trying to push it away and instead listened, even briefly, it softened. Not because it disappeared, but because it felt acknowledged.

That perspective is what shaped The Worry Whisper. I wanted children to learn early what many of us figure out much later—that emotions don’t need to be battled to be managed. When we listen, we create space. And in that space, we regain a sense of steadiness and choice.

Why was it important that Aarya didn’t “defeat” her fear by the end?

It was important to me that Aarya didn’t “defeat” her fear because that’s not how emotions actually work—especially not for children.

Fear doesn’t disappear in a single moment of courage. It comes and goes. It changes shape. And sometimes, it shows up again right when we think we’ve moved past it. I wanted the story to reflect that reality in a gentle, honest way.

Growing up, I often felt like I was supposed to “get over” my anxiety—to be braver, quieter, more in control. But what I really needed wasn’t to defeat those feelings; it was to understand them. To know that I could feel nervous and still move forward. That both could exist at the same time.

With Aarya, the goal wasn’t to eliminate fear, but to change her relationship with it. She learns to notice it, to listen to it, and to not let it decide what she can or cannot do. That felt like a more meaningful kind of strength—one that children can return to again and again, long after the story ends.

What conversations do you hope this book sparks between children and adults?

I hope The Worry Whisper opens the door to quieter, more honest conversations—ones that don’t rush to fix, but instead make space to understand.

For children, I hope it gives them language for what they’re feeling. That they can say, “I think my worry whisper is talking,” instead of shutting down or acting out. And for adults, I hope it’s a gentle reminder to pause and listen—not just to the words, but to what sits underneath them.

I also hope it shifts the dynamic from problem-solving to connection. Instead of “How do we make this go away?” the conversation becomes “What is this feeling trying to tell us?” or “What might help you feel a little steadier right now?” Those are very different starting points.

And perhaps most importantly, I hope it normalizes these experiences. That a child sees they’re not alone in feeling this way, and an adult recognizes that what looks like resistance or avoidance might actually be a child asking for support—just not in words they’ve learned yet.

If the book can help even one family move from reacting to understanding, from fixing to listening, it has done what I hoped it would do.

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