My Anxiety Has a Voice Now

My Anxiety Has a Voice Now

It started quietly — like the hum of a refrigerator in the background. I didn’t even notice it at first. Then, one day, I realized the noise was coming from inside me.

I was folding laundry when I heard it clearly for the first time.

“You’re forgetting something.”

I froze. The room was still. The washing machine had stopped. My son was napping upstairs.

“Who said that?” I whispered, half laughing, half terrified.

No one, of course. Just my mind — only now, it had decided to speak in full sentences.


---

For years, I had called it stress. I blamed it on my husband’s long work hours, my endless to-do lists, the sink full of dishes that never seemed to stay empty. But this — this voice — was sharper, more personal.

“You shouldn’t be tired yet.”
“You’re not doing enough.”
“Everyone else manages just fine.”

It had a tone, almost like a critical older sister who thought she knew better.

At first, I tried to drown it out. I turned up music while cooking, scrolled social media late into the night, and told myself everyone feels like this sometimes. But the more I ignored it, the louder it became.


---

One afternoon, while waiting in the school pickup line, it whispered again.

“You look tired. The other moms don’t look this tired.”

I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror — pale skin, hair in a rushed bun, eyes with that familiar dullness. My chest tightened. I felt that wave rise — the one that starts low in your stomach and crawls up, making it hard to breathe.

That was when I said it out loud for the first time:

“Stop it.”

The mom in the car next to me looked up, startled. I smiled awkwardly, pretending to be on the phone. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t ridiculous. I was tired of being quiet.


---

The voice came everywhere — at the grocery store, while folding towels, even during moments of calm. It didn’t shout; it nagged.

“You forgot milk.”
“You should’ve handled that better.”
“You’re failing at being calm.”

It was exhausting.

Then one evening, my husband came home early. He found me sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by unfolded laundry, eyes red.

“I can’t do it anymore,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Everything. I feel like I’m breaking all the time, even when I look fine.”

He sat beside me, quietly. No fixing, no advice. Just presence.

And that’s when something in me softened.


---

The next day, I made a small decision. I would stop pretending I was okay.

I told my husband I wanted to see a therapist. I told my best friend, who I’d been avoiding for months, that I wasn’t “busy,” I was overwhelmed. I told myself that asking for help wasn’t weakness — it was survival.

My therapist was kind, but blunt. “You’ve been living with anxiety for years,” she said. “You’ve just learned to disguise it as responsibility.”

Her words stung, but they also felt like a door unlocking.


---

In therapy, I learned something surprising — the voice wasn’t my enemy. It was fear, wearing a different face. It sounded cruel because it was scared.

When I began listening differently, I noticed its messages weren’t all lies. They were distorted truths.

“You’re not doing enough” really meant “You’re afraid of failing.”
“You’re tired” meant “You need rest, not guilt.”
“You’re not like the others” meant “You’re comparing instead of living.”

So instead of arguing with the voice, I started answering it gently.

“I hear you. But I’m doing my best.”
“I know you’re scared, but I’m okay right now.”

And strangely, the voice softened.


---

I began to make small changes — ten minutes of quiet before everyone woke up, short walks when the world felt too heavy, journaling without judgment.

Some mornings, the voice still greeted me before I opened my eyes.

“Today’s going to be hard.”

And I’d answer, “Maybe. But that’s okay.”

It wasn’t about silencing it anymore. It was about coexisting.


---

One rainy afternoon, my son came running to me with muddy shoes, tracking little footprints across the floor. I almost scolded him — then stopped.

He laughed, carefree, as the rain splattered the windows.

And I realized something: anxiety had stolen my ability to be present, to notice joy in the chaos.

So I joined him. We ran to the porch, barefoot, letting the rain soak through our clothes. My hair stuck to my face, my heart pounded — not with panic this time, but with life.

The voice was quiet. Maybe it was watching, maybe even learning.


---

That night, I wrote in my journal:
“My anxiety has a voice, but so do I.”

I no longer wanted to erase it — I wanted to understand it. Because that voice, as exhausting as it had been, had also kept me alert, empathetic, careful. It was the same voice that reminded me to check on friends, to notice when someone else was struggling, to care deeply even when it hurt.

It wasn’t my enemy — it just needed boundaries.


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Now, when the voice visits, I make tea. I listen, then I answer.

Sometimes I still cry. Sometimes I still feel that knot in my chest. But I don’t hide it anymore. My husband knows. My friends know. And I know — that healing doesn’t mean silence. It means harmony.

I am no longer trying to get rid of the voice.

I’m just learning to speak louder than it.