I Took My Anxiety for a Walk, and It Didn’t Win

by [Hazrat ali]

It started, as it always does, with a feeling.

Not loud at first—just a flutter in the chest. A sudden awareness of my own breathing. The kind of shift so subtle you might mistake it for nothing at all. But I knew better. I’d lived inside this body long enough to recognize the signs. The air felt heavier. The thoughts got faster. My fingers fidgeted with nothing. And before I knew it, anxiety had arrived.

It doesn’t knock. It just barges in.

I used to fight it. Lock myself indoors. Sit in silence and try to “calm down” while my heart raced like it was preparing for war. I’d breathe in and out like the wellness articles told me. I’d tell myself, you’re okay, you’re fine, you’re okay, but my brain didn’t believe me. Some days it felt like I was losing a fight no one else could see.

But that day was different.

I don’t know what pushed me to do it. Maybe it was defiance. Maybe it was desperation. But something in me whispered, Put on your shoes. Get outside. Take it with you.

So I did.

I took my anxiety for a walk.

At first, everything screamed no. My legs felt weak. My hands trembled. My mind was still spinning its usual fears:

What if I faint? What if someone sees me panic? What if I lose control?

But I kept walking.

I told myself I didn’t have to go far. Just to the corner. Just down the block. Just until I could say I moved.

The sky was grey, but the air was cool—just enough to remind me I was real.

The sound of my footsteps on the pavement became a rhythm.

I could still feel the panic riding beside me, whispering, waiting. But it was quieter now. As if unsure of what to do when I didn’t run from it.

I passed a couple walking their dog. A man sipping coffee outside a café. A kid on a bike zooming down the sidewalk, laughing. The world hadn’t stopped. No one looked at me with suspicion or concern. No one could see that I was fighting a battle just beneath the surface.

And that was oddly comforting.

I used to think anxiety had to be conquered in silence. That healing came from solitude, from retreat. But on that walk, I learned something else:

Maybe anxiety doesn’t want to be battled. Maybe it just wants to be acknowledged.

So I stopped trying to outpace it. I let it come. I noticed it—the tight chest, the fluttering thoughts, the ache in my shoulders—and then I looked up.

A tree’s leaves were catching light in just the right way.

A bird sang from somewhere I couldn’t see.

My breath, still shaky, had started to slow.

I whispered aloud, “You don’t win today.”

It wasn’t a grand victory. I didn’t come home cured. The anxiety still lingered, soft at the edges. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel powerless. I felt like someone who could carry fear without letting it steer.

I’ve taken many walks since then.

Sometimes short. Sometimes long. Sometimes anxiety walks with me, and sometimes it stays behind. But either way, I go. Not to escape it, but to remind myself I don’t have to sit frozen while it screams.

I’ve walked through panic attacks and spiraling thoughts. I’ve walked through tears and shaking knees. I’ve walked in silence and to the rhythm of my breath. Every step reminds me I’m not broken—I’m moving.

This isn’t a miracle cure.

It’s a practice.

A choice I keep making.

To lace up my shoes.

To open the door.

To move forward, even when fear says stop.

I took my anxiety for a walk, and it didn’t win.

Not because it disappeared.

But because I did it anyway.

Because the sky still hung above me, the road still stretched ahead, and somewhere in the motion, I remembered:

I am still here. And I am still trying.

And sometimes, that’s more than enough.