A Mind on Fire

I didn’t know it had a name.

The racing heart, the endless thoughts, the fear that tightened my chest like a vice in the middle of math class or while sitting quietly on my bed—it was just me, or so I thought. I was just “too sensitive,” “too dramatic,” or maybe “just overthinking.” Everyone said so.

But inside, I was burning.

It started when I was about sixteen. From the outside, everything seemed fine—I had a family that loved me, friends who sent funny memes at midnight, decent grades, and even a few compliments from teachers. But none of that could quiet what was happening inside my head.

My mornings began with a jolt. Even before my alarm went off, my body would wake me with this strange, invisible weight pressing on my chest. Like I’d already failed at something I hadn’t even started. I’d look in the mirror and whisper, “Today will be different,” but within minutes, that fragile hope would collapse under the flood of doubts.

What if I say something stupid today?

What if they’re laughing at me behind my back?

What if I can’t breathe in the middle of class?

Anxiety didn’t shout. It whispered. And its whispers were constant.

I stopped hanging out with my friends as much. At first, I made excuses—“too much homework,” “family stuff,” “feeling sick.” Eventually, they stopped asking. I didn’t blame them. I barely recognized myself either. I went from a loud, curious kid who asked too many questions to someone who sat at the back of the class and prayed not to be noticed.

The nights were the worst.

I’d lie in bed, eyes wide open, heart pounding like I’d just run a race. My brain would play memories like horror films. Every embarrassing thing I’d ever done looped endlessly in my mind. I’d count the ceiling tiles. I’d try breathing techniques. Nothing worked.

One night, I walked to the bathroom, looked at my pale reflection, and asked out loud, “What is wrong with me?”

It took months—and a breakdown in front of my mother—for me to finally say the words I was most afraid of.

“I think something’s happening to me, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

She didn’t have the answers. But she had something better: She listened.

That night, for the first time, I felt like maybe I wasn’t crazy. Maybe I was just hurting, and maybe it was okay to say that out loud.

Eventually, I found a name for what was happening. Anxiety.

I read articles. I joined a support group online where people told stories that sounded exactly like mine. I learned about the fight-or-flight response, about panic attacks, and about how sometimes your brain sounds like it’s warning you of danger—when really, you're just walking into a room full of friends.

But naming it didn’t fix everything.

Some days were still unbearable. I’d sit with my textbook open for hours and not read a single page because my brain was too busy planning for disasters that never came. I hated how irrational it all seemed, but I couldn’t stop it. Anxiety doesn’t respond to logic. It builds its home in your chest, and it dares you to live normally with it there.

But slowly, I learned that I could fight back.

Not with fists. But with habits. With grace. With truth.

I started journaling—pouring my thoughts out like poison I needed to get rid of. I practiced mindfulness, not because I wanted to be trendy, but because it was one of the few ways I could remind myself that this moment, right here, was real—and safe.

And I went to therapy.

At first, I was terrified. What if I couldn’t explain how I felt? What if they thought I was weak? But the therapist didn’t judge. She just asked questions no one else ever had.

“What would happen if you stopped being afraid of the fear itself?”

I didn’t know the answer then. I’m still learning it now.

I wish I could say I’m cured. That I never get anxious anymore. But that would be a lie. Anxiety still visits. Sometimes it sneaks in quietly when I’m least expecting it—during a group project, a party, or even while texting someone I like. My palms still sweat. My thoughts still race. But now, I don’t run from it.

Now, I speak to it.

“I see you,” I whisper when the fire returns. “But you don’t get to control me anymore.”

Because I’ve walked through the worst of it. I’ve stood at the edge of panic and learned to breathe anyway. I’ve felt like I was dying when, in truth, I was just learning how to survive.

Anxiety tried to break me.

It tried to convince me I was unlovable, incapable, unworthy.

But here I am.

Still breathing.

Still dreaming.

Still fighting.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s what strength really looks like.