I usually listen to a podcast episode or a few minutes of an audiobook at the start of my workouts to distract my brain from thinking about how much I do not want to be working out at that moment. Then, when I’m about halfway through exercising and my body loosens up, I switch to a playlist with a few bangers from my high school and college years. Nothing gets this almost 40-year-old mama’s feet moving a little faster than hits from the 90s and early aughts.

I read recently about how thousands of cattle in Kansas died due to heat stress. They didn’t die from one day of hot temperatures, necessarily. But the persistent extreme heat and humidity that hit many parts of the country–particularly this one region in Kansas–wreaked havoc on herds.

Cattle can usually adapt to the summer heat. Studies show they’re resilient animals, but as one article told me, when there are multiple stressors involved, the animal struggles to cope. Not only that, but cattle need the lower nighttime temperatures to bring their internal temperature down. When nighttime temps are too high, they don’t release enough of their internal heat, and it continues to build and build and build, causing major problems when that cycle persists. Eventually, they can’t carry the cumulative heat load built up in their bodies. “Right now, if we don’t have night-time cooling hours, the animal won’t be starting each day at thermo-neutral, so they’re more at risk on the second or third day,” one veterinarian said.

Okay, let’s acknowledge the elephant (cow?) in the room. Yes, I’m about to compare us to cattle. My metaphor obviously breaks down pretty quickly, but bear with me…

Every night before my husband and I go to bed, we tiptoe into our kids’ rooms. We give them one last kiss, and then we straighten out their blankets and tuck the covers around them. And every single night since the twins were babies, I’ve put my hand on their backs, leaned in close, and listened for the sound of their breathing.

The habit started out of fear. For months after we brought our tiny newborns home from the hospital, I’d check on them incessantly. I’d pick them up, smell their sweet skin, and watch their chest rise and fall as they inhaled and exhaled. I needed to hold them just one more time before collapsing into my own bed for a few hours. My husband reassured me regularly, “They’re okay. They’re going to be okay,” and I knew—most likely—he was right. At the time, I didn’t think I was being an anxious parent, but looking back, I can see how fearful I really was—and often still am.