Me and My Anxiety

I don’t remember the first time anxiety showed up. It wasn’t like some dramatic movie scene where the world tilts, and suddenly, everything changes. It was more like a whisper. A knot in my stomach before school. A restless night before a simple conversation. A racing heart for reasons I couldn’t name.

At first, I thought it was just part of being human. Everyone worries, right? Everyone has sleepless nights and moments of doubt. But as the years went on, I realized my version of "normal" was drenched in a quiet kind of panic, one that followed me like a shadow—unseen by others, but always with me.

Anxiety, to me, isn’t just feeling nervous before a test or an interview. It’s sitting in a room full of people and feeling like you don’t belong. It’s checking your phone and rereading messages, convinced you’ve said something wrong. It’s walking into a coffee shop and rehearsing your order five times, just in case. It’s exhausting.

I’ve always been good at pretending. Smiling when I’m breaking inside. Laughing when all I want to do is run. Most people wouldn’t guess what’s going on beneath the surface. That’s the thing about anxiety—it’s often invisible. It doesn’t show up as tears or tantrums. It shows up as silence, as overthinking, as a heart that never truly rests.

There was a time in my early twenties when it got really bad. I had just started a new job—something I was genuinely excited about. But every morning, I woke up with dread pressing down on my chest. I’d get dressed, drive to work, and sit in the parking lot, paralyzed. I’d grip the steering wheel, trying to slow my breathing, giving myself pep talks that felt hollow. Sometimes I made it inside. Sometimes I didn’t.

I started avoiding calls from friends. I stopped showing up to things I once loved. I told myself I was tired, busy, just needing time. But the truth was, I was afraid. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of being seen. Afraid of myself.

That’s when I knew I needed help.

Therapy was the first time I said it out loud: “I think something’s wrong with me.” And the therapist didn’t flinch. She didn’t look shocked. She nodded, like she’d heard it a hundred times before. Because she probably had.

She told me anxiety isn’t a flaw. It isn’t a weakness or a sign that I’m broken. It’s just a part of my brain working a little too hard to keep me safe. “Your brain thinks it's protecting you,” she said. “But sometimes, it’s protecting you from things that aren’t real threats.”

That shifted something in me. It didn’t make the anxiety disappear, but it made me feel less ashamed of it. I started to learn tools—breathing techniques, grounding exercises, journaling. I learned to catch the anxious thoughts before they spiraled too far. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. But it was a start.

There were relapses, of course. Anxiety doesn’t walk away quietly. It clings. It whispers. It comes back stronger some days. But I also had moments of clarity—days where I felt light, even joyful. I learned to savor those moments. I stopped chasing perfection and started aiming for progress.

I still have anxiety. That hasn’t changed. But now I know it doesn’t define me. It’s part of my story, but it’s not the whole story. I’m allowed to have hard days without labeling myself a failure. I’m allowed to ask for space, to say no, to rest.

What’s funny is that anxiety also made me more compassionate. I see it in others now—in their fidgeting, their long pauses, their careful words. I don’t judge them. I don’t rush them. Because I know how much courage it takes to show up when your mind is screaming at you to hide.

To anyone reading this who feels the same weight I’ve felt: you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Sometimes surviving the day is a victory. Sometimes just getting out of bed is enough.

There’s strength in being honest about your struggles. There’s power in naming your pain. And there’s hope—even on the darkest days.

So this is me. And this is my anxiety.

We walk together. We stumble together. But most importantly, we keep going.

Still standing.

Still trying.

There are days when I forget it’s there. Not because it’s gone, but because I’ve learned how to live around it. Like a scar that no longer aches or a song that used to make me cry but now just brings a quiet nostalgia.

And then, without warning, it returns. A trigger I didn’t see coming. A phrase, a glance, a crowded room. My chest tightens, my hands tremble, and suddenly I’m thirteen again, standing in front of the class, heart pounding, convinced everyone sees how wrong I am.

But now, I know how to breathe through it. I know to excuse myself if I need to. I know that sitting alone in the bathroom for ten minutes isn’t weakness—it’s survival. It’s strategy. It’s a way to keep going.

I’ve also stopped explaining myself to people who don’t understand. There was a time when I felt the need to justify every choice: why I canceled, why I left early, why I needed quiet. I’d say things like, “I’m just tired,” or “I’ve had a long day,” instead of what I really meant: “My mind is loud and I need silence.”

Now, I protect my peace. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for surviving in the way I need to. I surround myself with people who get it—or at least try to. People who check in without pressuring me to respond. Who understand that love can look like space, like patience, like presence without words.

I’ve had friends disappear when I couldn’t be the version of myself they preferred—more social, more easygoing, more available. And it hurt. It still does. But I’ve also had people stay. People who sat with me through silence. Who texted me just to say, “You don’t have to reply—I just wanted you to know I’m here.”

That kind of love has healed parts of me I didn’t know were broken.

And slowly, I’ve learned to be that person for myself, too.

I don’t always win the battle. Some nights I still spiral. Some days I cancel plans I was looking forward to because my body just won’t let me go. I still cry in the shower sometimes, wondering why everything feels so hard. But even in those moments, I talk to myself with a kind of gentleness I never used to.

“You’re doing your best,” I whisper. “And that’s enough.”

Anxiety hasn’t left me, and maybe it never will. But it doesn’t control me the way it used to. It walks beside me now, not ahead of me. It still speaks, but I choose which voice to listen to. And more often, I choose my own.

I used to think healing meant being cured. That one day I’d wake up and feel nothing but peace. But now I think healing is just becoming more of who you are—even with the cracks, the bruises, the fear. Healing is choosing to keep walking, even when the path isn’t clear. It’s choosing to stay—on this earth, in your body, in your story.

So, I stay.

And every time I do, it’s an act of courage.

This is me. This is my anxiety.

Still standing.

Still trying.

Still here.