When we became parents my wife and I agreed that we wanted to let our kids explore the world with a similar level of freedom we had as a kids.
When my 3yo was about 2, he pushed through a defective locked gate and fell down a flight of stairs, losing a tooth. Then about three weeks ago he got distracted in the bathroom and fell off a stool with a toothbrush in his mouth. I'll spare you the details.
These accidents weren't directly caused by our goal of giving our kids more independence, but they had the effect of making that goal all but impossible, at least for now. I catch myself telling him he can't do things he could before, or saying "<childname> slow down!" about 100 times per day. Seeing him on a playground gives me terrible anxiety.
He's fine. He's not afraid of anything. He's so bloody resilient despite all his trauma. But I'm failing him because the risks feel so real and paralyzing. To love what death can touch...
One difference, I think, is that I am lucky enough to not be affected by the historical taboo of mental health. I'm seeking therapy for this, which I'm also not afraid to admit out loud. And I'm hopeful that it will help me face this.