Living in the Shadows of Anxiety: A Silent Struggle
For as long as I can remember, there’s been this heavy feeling that follows me everywhere. Some days it’s a low hum in the background; on others, it’s all I can hear—a relentless, pounding dread that leaves me breathless and aching. I’d be sitting in a room full of people, laughter all around me, and yet this feeling would creep in, reminding me that I was somehow separate, somehow alone.
The worst part? I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t have the words. I just knew that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong. My heart would race, my palms would get clammy, and I’d feel this overwhelming need to escape, to run away. But I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t run from my own mind.
I remember once, in school, I froze before an exam. All around me, people were flipping through notes, chatting, laughing. And there I was, staring at the paper, feeling like I was about to break. My hands were trembling, my vision blurred, and all I could think was, What’s wrong with me? I wanted to scream, to let someone—anyone—know what was happening. But instead, I sat in silence, too ashamed to say a word.
At home, things weren’t easier. Whenever I tried to bring it up, I’d hear the same things, Don’t overthink,You just need to keep busy, or Everyone feels stressed sometimes. And I’d smile, nod, pretend like they were right. But inside, I was screaming. Because it wasn’t “just stress.” It was this silent storm, tearing me apart from the inside out, leaving me drained, exhausted, and afraid.
I got so good at pretending at faking smiles, laughing along, going through the motions. But every day, a part of me was fading. I’d cancel plans, make excuses, anything to avoid situations that might set off the panic. I’d lie awake at night, my heart pounding, my mind spinning with endless what ifs. I’d watch the ceiling, wondering if there would ever be an escape from this prison in my own head.
College was supposed to be a new beginning, a fresh start. But instead, the loneliness grew louder. I’d sit in crowded classrooms, surrounded by people, feeling like an outsider. The idea of introducing myself, making friends, trying to fit in it felt like climbing a mountain with no end. So, I retreated. I hid. I stayed in my room, letting the world pass by, too afraid to reach out.
One night, after days of feeling like I couldn’t breathe, I found myself sitting in front of a doctor, hands shaking, voice barely a whisper. Admitting I needed help felt like I was betraying every part of myself that had been told to be strong. But I couldn’t go on like this. I couldn’t keep pretending.
The doctor listened. Really listened. She told me anxiety was real, that it wasn’t something I’d just get over or grow out of. She talked about therapy, about the possibility of finding ways to cope. In that small, quiet room, for the first time in my life, I felt seen. I felt understood.
Since then, I’ve been learning. Learning to be kinder to myself, to let go of the guilt and the shame that anxiety brings. Some days are harder than others. I still feel that familiar ache, that urge to run, to hide. But now I’m finding ways to breathe through it, to remind myself that I’m okay, even when everything in me feels broken.
There’s a strange kind of courage in letting yourself be vulnerable, in admitting that you can’t do this alone. Because maybe, just maybe, in sharing our stories, in opening up, we can find a way through this together. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
