“Dating With Anxiety: A Love Story With My Mind”

Dating With Anxiety: A Love Story With My Mind


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Our first date was perfect—on paper.

He picked me up right on time, wore a soft smile and a button-down shirt that smelled like cedarwood. The restaurant was small and dimly lit, my favorite kind. The conversation flowed like we’d known each other in another life. He laughed at my jokes, asked thoughtful questions, and told stories with the kind of calm that made the world feel less loud.

And the entire time, I was screaming—inside my head.

“Your laugh is weird. Don’t laugh so loud.”

“Don’t fidget with your hands. He’ll notice.”

“Did you talk too much? Not enough? Are you making eye contact? Is your eye twitching?”

I excused myself to the bathroom halfway through the appetizers and stared at myself in the mirror, willing my heart to slow down.

This wasn’t about him. It never is. It was about the third wheel in every relationship I’ve ever had: Anxiety.


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Anxiety and I have been together far longer than any man. We’ve had our ups and downs, our silent wars and loud breakdowns. I know its voice better than I know my own. It's always there—on dates, in texts, in the quiet before a kiss. It critiques me mercilessly, measures my worth in imagined faults, and reminds me I’m too much and never enough, sometimes in the same breath.

But that night—after the dinner, after the goodbye hug, after I replayed every second of the evening on loop—I realized something strange.

He texted me.

He said he had a great time. That he’d love to see me again. That he liked my laugh.

Cue panic.

“He’s just being polite.”

“He feels bad for you.”

“He’s going to ghost you in three days.”

Still, I agreed to a second date.


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Falling for someone when you live with anxiety is like building a house during an earthquake. You try to set foundations, to trust, to believe. But your brain keeps shaking everything loose. Every silence becomes rejection. Every delayed reply becomes proof that they’re leaving. You want to be vulnerable, but vulnerability feels like standing naked in a storm.

I tried to explain it to him once, early on. I said, “Sometimes I’ll pull away. Not because I want to, but because I’m afraid.”

He nodded. “I get that. Just... promise me you’ll let me sit with you through it?”

That’s when I cried.

Not because he fixed it—no one can.

But because he didn’t run.


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Anxiety doesn’t disappear when someone loves you. It doesn’t soften with compliments or vanish with affection. But love—real love—can make room for it.

He learned how to tell when I was spiraling. He’d send a “Thinking of you” text when I pulled away. He never said I was being dramatic when I asked if he still liked me three times in a row. He’d hold my hand gently and whisper, “You’re okay. We’re okay,” like a grounding mantra.

And I, in return, started learning to separate his voice from the one in my head.


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Dating with anxiety isn’t just hard on me. It’s hard on the person who chooses to love me, too. There are days when I cancel plans last minute because I can’t get out of bed. Days when I need reassurance I’m not a burden. Days when I spiral from one sentence he said two days ago and ask if he meant it exactly how he said it.

But we made a deal—me, him, and my anxiety.

He gives me patience. I give him honesty. And my anxiety? It learns to take the back seat sometimes.


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The first time he said “I love you,” I froze.

Not because I didn’t feel it.

But because my anxiety whispered, He doesn’t mean it. He’ll take it back. You’ll ruin this.

But I looked at him—at his steady hands and soft eyes—and I decided to answer out loud, not in my head.

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t just a declaration to him.

It was a message to myself.

That I deserve this.

That I am lovable—even with my shaky voice, racing thoughts, and overthinking heart.


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We’re still learning.

There are good days and hard ones. But now, I know I don’t have to pretend to be okay to be loved. And my anxiety? It’s still here. Still chatty. Still obnoxious. But it’s not driving anymore.

Sometimes, I think the real love story isn’t just between him and me.

It’s between me and my mind. Learning to live together, to trust again, to love—softly, slowly, fearfully, and still, fully.

And maybe that’s what real love looks like.

Not perfect.

But present.