Mindful Moments — Embracing Mental Wellness

2016

I didn’t realize I had anxiety until it stole something from me. It didn’t arrive with a grand entrance—it crept in slowly, disguised as overthinking, fatigue, and tightness in my chest I kept blaming on poor sleep.

My mornings began with racing thoughts and a clenched jaw. I'd walk into rooms forgetting why I entered them, or sit through conversations without retaining a single word. But still, I pushed on—drinking more coffee, writing to-do lists, obsessively checking notifications. I thought I was just “busy.” I thought this was normal.

It wasn’t.

2018

I had my first full-blown panic attack on the train. My heart pounded so hard I thought I was having a heart attack. The walls of the carriage closed in, the air turned electric. People stared while I gasped for air, trembling, clutching the edge of my seat.

I went home that night and cried. Not from the panic, but from the shame. How had I let myself fall apart like this?

It wasn’t until a friend handed me a small, dog-eared book on mindfulness that something shifted. “Try this,” she said, “just read a few pages. No pressure.”

I scoffed. Breathing exercises and positive affirmations? That couldn’t fix this.

But I was desperate.

2019

It began slowly—five minutes each morning. I’d sit at the edge of my bed, eyes closed, focusing only on my breath. Some days I felt stupid. Other days, frustrated. But occasionally, I felt peace.

That silence, however fleeting, reminded me of something I had long forgotten: I was not my thoughts. I was the space behind them.

I started journaling. I got into therapy. I said “no” more often. I stopped glorifying being “booked and busy.” Healing was not glamorous, but it was real.

2020

The pandemic hit and everyone around me began to unravel in the very ways I had just begun to stitch myself back together. For the first time, I wasn’t the only one in the room silently struggling.

People talked about burnout, about anxiety, about boundaries. It was like the world finally paused long enough to hear the things many of us had been whispering all along.

I leaned into meditation. I practiced yoga with free YouTube videos. I cried through virtual therapy sessions. But I also laughed—real, deep laughter—with friends over video calls and late-night texts. I reconnected with my body, my breath, and even with my younger self, the one who used to daydream in tree branches and hum to the clouds.

2022

I wasn’t “cured,” and I doubt I ever will be. But I learned something more valuable: how to sit with discomfort. How to listen to it. And most importantly, how to not fear it.

My mind still races sometimes. My hands still sweat before meetings. But I no longer run from it. I greet it like an old visitor—one who doesn’t stay long now that I’ve stopped feeding it with fear and silence.

I built rituals into my life: morning sunlight, handwritten gratitude lists, chamomile tea at night. Tiny habits that, when stitched together, became a sanctuary.

2024

People now come to me for advice on anxiety. Me—the person who once hyperventilated in the frozen food aisle. I tell them the truth: healing is not a straight line. You’ll have setbacks. You’ll doubt yourself. But you will also learn to notice beauty in the smallest things—a warm breeze, a deep breath, the way your heartbeat slows when you finally let go.

The greatest lesson I’ve learned is this: peace doesn’t come from fixing everything. It comes from being okay even when everything isn’t okay.


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Epilogue
Mental health still carries stigma. But by telling my story, I chip away at that wall. I write this not just for myself—but for anyone lying awake at 3 a.m., wondering if they’re the only one feeling this way.

You’re not.

There’s power in your breath. There’s strength in stillness. And somewhere, right now, your future self is waiting—calm, resilient, and proud of how far you’ve come.