Anxiety Wasn’t the Enemy I Was

For the longest time, I treated anxiety like a war I had to win.

I armed myself with self-help books, breathing techniques, and positive affirmations like they were weapons. I followed all the “rules”: eat healthy, exercise, meditate. I tried therapy. I tried pretending it didn’t exist. I tried smiling when I wanted to scream. I tried running—both literally and metaphorically.

But anxiety was always there. Not as a constant storm, but like an unpredictable tide. Some days were calm. Others, I was drowning.

And the worst part? I thought it was all my fault.

I believed that if I was stronger, more disciplined, more grateful, I wouldn’t feel this way. I believed anxiety was weakness—and weakness was shameful. I was angry with my mind for betraying me, for panicking in safe spaces, for making me question every word I spoke, every move I made.

I kept asking:

“What’s wrong with me?”

That question followed me everywhere. During meetings where I felt my heart race for no reason. On dates where I smiled through chest-tightening silence. Even in bed at night when the world was quiet, but my mind screamed.

It wasn’t until I hit my lowest point that I realized something:

Anxiety wasn’t the villain. I was the one making it one.

The real enemy wasn’t the fear or the panic—it was the shame.

The endless self-criticism. The belief that I had to be “normal,” that struggle made me broken.

The shift didn’t come overnight.

It started quietly, on a day I nearly called in sick to work because the weight in my chest felt unbearable. But instead, I sat down on my floor and just asked myself, “What are you trying to tell me?”

Not “how do I fix this?”

Not “why can’t I handle this?”

Just: “What is this feeling trying to say?”

And the answer was surprisingly simple:

“I’m overwhelmed. I’m scared. I feel unseen.”

For the first time, I didn’t argue with it. I didn’t try to suppress it or spin it into something positive. I just listened. And I cried—not because I was weak, but because I finally allowed myself to be human.

That moment marked the beginning of a new relationship with my anxiety—not as an adversary, but as a messenger.

I learned that anxiety often came when I was out of alignment—when I was overcommitting, ignoring my needs, or staying silent about things that mattered. I noticed that it wasn’t random. It had patterns. Triggers. Messages.

And slowly, I stopped asking “what’s wrong with me?”

I started asking, “What do I need right now?”

Sometimes the answer was rest.

Sometimes it was boundaries.

Sometimes it was speaking up instead of staying quiet.

And sometimes, yes, it was therapy or a walk outside or saying no to things that drained me.

This shift changed everything.

I no longer needed to be cured—I needed to be understood.

And most importantly, I needed to understand myself.

That’s not to say the anxiety disappeared. It didn’t. I still have days where my hands tremble for no clear reason. Where my thoughts spiral. Where I feel fragile.

But now, I meet those days with softness, not judgment.

I remind myself: You’re not broken. You’re human. You’re trying.

And trying is enough.

The truth is, we live in a world that tells us to be fine all the time. To hustle, to smile, to be productive even when our souls are begging for stillness. No wonder so many of us are anxious. We’re not machines. We’re people—with history, trauma, dreams, and fragile nervous systems.

If I could go back and talk to the version of me who thought anxiety made her weak, I’d hold her hand and say this:

“You’re not the enemy. You’re the one who needs the most compassion. You are still worthy—even when your mind feels messy. Especially then.”

Today, I don’t fight anxiety. I walk with it.

I check in with it like I would a friend having a hard day.

I let it guide me when something feels off.

And in doing so, I’ve built a life that doesn’t require pretending.

A life with slower mornings, deeper conversations, and real peace—not the kind you force, but the kind that comes from being at home in your own skin.

Anxiety hasn’t left me. But I’ve left behind the shame that once came with it.

And that’s where freedom truly began.