Lila, a small girl with big brown eyes and braids tied with blue ribbons, sits cross-legged on her bed, clutching a notebook to her chest. Her feet tap restlessly against the quilt as she stares at the ceiling, chewing her lip. The big math test at school feels like a storm cloud looming overhead. "What if I forget everything? What if I freeze up?" she whispers to herself, voice barely above a sigh. The ticking of her alarm clock seems louder than usual, echoing her worries.

Mom, bustling about in a polka-dot apron, notices Lila's anxious face as she pushes scrambled eggs around her plate. Mom sits beside her and gently tucks a stray braid behind Lila's ear. "You’ve studied hard, sweetheart. Remember what we practiced? The grounding exercise? It helps you come back to now, when your mind starts to race." Lila nods, trying to smile, but her fingers still fidget restlessly in her lap.

Lila takes a window seat, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. The world outside blurs as her thoughts spin faster. She opens her notebook, but the numbers swim before her eyes. "Okay, I can do this," she murmurs, recalling her mother’s words. Her breath comes quick and shallow, but she tries to steady it, focusing on the warm seat beneath her and the hum of the engine.

Lila slips away to a quiet corner outside her classroom, hugging her backpack tightly. She closes her eyes and begins the grounding exercise her mom taught her. "Five things I can see," she whispers, peeking through half-closed lids: the shiny red lockers, a classmate’s sparkly shoes, a plant in the window, the teacher’s coffee mug, the poster about kindness. "Four things I can feel," she continues, counting the cool strap of her bag, the softness of her sweater, the hard floor beneath her, the brush of her braid on her cheek.

Lila settles into her seat, her breathing slower, her hands no longer trembling. She finishes her grounding exercise silently, noticing three things she hears—the gentle murmur of voices, the squeak of a marker on the whiteboard, the distant chirp of a bird. Two things she smells—the lemony scent of floor cleaner, the sweet vanilla of her hand lotion. One thing she tastes—the faint mint from her toothpaste. "I’m here now. I’m okay," she tells herself with a newfound calm. The test paper lands on her desk, and she picks up her pencil, ready.

Lila grins as she swings her backpack over her shoulder, her steps light. She catches sight of Mom waiting at the gate and runs to her, arms wide. "I did it, Mom! I wasn’t scared—I remembered to ground myself. It really worked!" Mom hugs her tight, beaming. "I knew you could do it, Lila. I’m so proud of you." Together, they walk home, the day’s worries left far behind.