Me And My Anxiety

I don’t remember the exact day it started. Not a single moment, not a thunderclap or crash of lightning. It was more like fog rolling in slowly—first around the edges, soft and easy to ignore. Then thicker. Denser. Until one day, I realized I couldn’t see the world without it.

I call it the Passenger.

It’s not a monster. Not a demon, either. Just a presence—quiet, insistent, always there. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. It leans in just as I’m about to make a decision, just when the room goes silent, just when I need a second of peace. And it says things like: Are you sure? What if they laugh? What if you fail? What if something goes wrong?

At first, I thought everyone had one. Maybe they do. But mine is loud. Mine is clever. It doesn’t show up with sirens and flashing lights—it comes with doubt, second-guessing, and the kind of logic that sounds convincing enough to obey. It wears the mask of caution, the voice of reason. It disguises itself as protection, while slowly wrapping a leash around my chest.

It started small. A racing heart before school presentations. Cold hands when the teacher called on me. The feeling that something was just a little off, like I’d left the oven on or forgotten to say something important. Over time, it grew legs. Roots. It followed me into friendships, into relationships, into dreams and ambitions. I stopped raising my hand. I stopped calling people back. I started rehearsing conversations in my head a dozen times before ever opening my mouth.

When I got older, the Passenger grew bolder. It took up residence in my mornings. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, arguing with myself about whether I could go to work or whether I’d mess something up. If I made it out the door, it came with me—tightening my throat during meetings, whispering after every interaction, You sounded weird. They’re judging you.

It knows my weak spots. It knows how to make me question everything, even on good days. Especially on good days.

And yet, it’s never entirely cruel. Just persistent. Just present.

I’ve tried to explain it to people—gently, cautiously, like testing the depth of a frozen lake. “I get anxious sometimes,” I’ll say. Or, “It’s just been a rough patch.” But most people only understand anxiety when it comes as panic attacks or meltdowns. Mine doesn’t always work like that. Mine lingers. Mine is quiet. Invisible. A passenger no one else sees.

There was a time I hated it. Resisted it. Spent years trying to banish it through willpower, through silence, through sheer determination. But it only grew more desperate, more cunning. The harder I fought, the more it clung to me. Until I realized: maybe I can’t fight it head-on. Maybe I have to understand it first.

So now, I acknowledge it.

When the Passenger shows up, I nod. I breathe. I say, I see you. I hear you. But I’m still going.

When I walk into a room and feel the tug in my chest, I say, Yes, I’m uncomfortable—but I’m not unsafe.

When I start overthinking every word in a text message, I remind myself, I’m allowed to be human. I don’t need to be perfect.

Some days, that’s enough. Other days, it’s not. And on those days, I take smaller steps. I cancel a plan. I turn my phone off. I lie still and let the world be heavy, knowing it won’t stay that way forever.

Because here’s the truth: the Passenger hasn’t left, but it’s quieter now. Not gone, not silent—but less in control.

I’ve learned to drive with it beside me. I’ve learned to move forward with trembling hands. I’ve learned that anxiety is not a flaw in my character—it’s just a part of the way I’m wired. And like any passenger, it doesn’t get to decide where I’m going.

There are days when I forget it’s there. Days when the sky feels clear, my thoughts feel like mine, and my body feels like home. Those are the days I treasure.

But I don’t wait for them to live.

I live with it. Not for it. Not against it.

Just with it.

And every day I show up, every day I choose to speak, to try, to hope—that’s a day the Passenger doesn’t win.

Not completely.

Not ever again.