Anxiety cannot be cured, only managed. Fifteen years since the diagnosis, my therapist offered this gentle reminder as I returned to her office for my now weekly appointment. The anxiety had been at a manageable distance for the past decade. During that time, I had been to China twice. I had lived on my own in a different state where I didn’t know anyone. I had spoken in front of crowds of a hundred people. Each milestone chiseled the anxiety into a pocket-sized problem that I could tuck out of sight.
By the time I graduated with my master’s degree and landed my first full-time job, I believed I could create a life without the anxiety. I was an adult now. I could manage any remnants of the panic privately and on my own. It would be unprofessional to talk about mental health at work. These were the rules I created for myself in order to be perfect. I thought that was what was expected of me.
Meanwhile, the anxiety loomed on the horizon and drew nearer. I felt it within me, hardening walnut-tough. I tried a different medication, but the capsules I swallowed each morning only made the anxiety bigger and louder. It found me everywhere I went, even in situations that had never bothered me before. There were hotspots all around.
The panic attacks spanned hours and consumed my whole body. One evening, about an hour into an attack, I sank to my bedroom floor and hugged my knees to my chest. I felt so far away from the familiar space around me. Even the air became more and more difficult to draw into my lungs. I felt like I was drowning in anxiety, and I clung to Avril Lavigne’s “Head Above Water” like a piece of driftwood, playing her song on repeat until my body stopped shaking. I knew I needed help.
Several of my coworkers, I learned, could relate to what I was going through. One friend from work offered me a small stone to carry in my pocket. I could hold it in my hand if the anxiety became too intense and allow the energy of the earth to heal me. Another friend sat by my side as the anxiety hit its peak. “Breathe with me,” she said, and she led me through an exercise to focus on my breath. Yet another friend showed me a picture pinned by her desk. The black-and-white image revealed a tree whose roots burrowed into the stony ground. Life could take root even in rock-hard places.
I came across a quote that an Ursuline associate had posted online, and its message also made the shadows a bit lighter: “When you’re in a dark place, you sometimes tend to think you’ve been buried. Perhaps you’ve been planted. Bloom.” It offered hope that I wasn’t being swallowed up by the anxiety; I was growing. If I could soak in the rain, I would soon feel the sun. The image of a seed reminded me of a verse I’d sung many Sundays: Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains what it was—a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest (John 12:24). The panic attacks were a very physical expression of what the process of falling and crumbling felt like, but I needed to trust that it wasn’t an end. It was just a shell breaking away.
Meanwhile, the anxiety loomed on the horizon and drew nearer. I felt it within me, hardening walnut-tough. I tried a different medication, but the capsules I swallowed each morning only made the anxiety bigger and louder. It found me everywhere I went, even in situations that had never bothered me before. There were hotspots all around.
The panic attacks spanned hours and consumed my whole body. One evening, about an hour into an attack, I sank to my bedroom floor and hugged my knees to my chest. I felt so far away from the familiar space around me. Even the air became more and more difficult to draw into my lungs. I felt like I was drowning in anxiety, and I clung to Avril Lavigne’s “Head Above Water” like a piece of driftwood, playing her song on repeat until my body stopped shaking. I knew I needed help.
Several of my coworkers, I learned, could relate to what I was going through. One friend from work offered me a small stone to carry in my pocket. I could hold it in my hand if the anxiety became too intense and allow the energy of the earth to heal me. Another friend sat by my side as the anxiety hit its peak. “Breathe with me,” she said, and she led me through an exercise to focus on my breath. Yet another friend showed me a picture pinned by her desk. The black-and-white image revealed a tree whose roots burrowed into the stony ground. Life could take root even in rock-hard places.
I came across a quote that an Ursuline associate had posted online, and its message also made the shadows a bit lighter: “When you’re in a dark place, you sometimes tend to think you’ve been buried. Perhaps you’ve been planted. Bloom.” It offered hope that I wasn’t being swallowed up by the anxiety; I was growing. If I could soak in the rain, I would soon feel the sun. The image of a seed reminded me of a verse I’d sung many Sundays: Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains what it was—a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest (John 12:24). The panic attacks were a very physical expression of what the process of falling and crumbling felt like, but I needed to trust that it wasn’t an end. It was just a shell breaking away.
My doctor helped me rebalance the medication. I assessed when to push myself and when to step back. As my therapist put it, sometimes you board the windows and bear the storm, and sometimes you evacuate. I began mornings with a cup of tea and Danny Gokey’s “Tell Your Heart to Beat Again” as I continued along the journey step by step. Still, the path of healing seemed so long, and I was already exhausted.
I gradually began having more good days, but the bad ones still wore me down. Once when I was trying to rebound from a rough morning, a friend at work offered some guidance. “You are not your thoughts,” she said, and she let me reflect on those words as she sat at her desk for an afternoon meditation. Several minutes later, she took out her earbuds and called over to me, “You’re not going to believe this. Today’s theme is ‘you are not your thoughts.’” She set her phone on my desk, open to Oprah & Deepak’s 21-Day Meditation Experience. Sure enough, as soon as I pressed play, I heard Oprah’s voice echoing what my friend had just told me. Oprah explained that we are not the thoughts that relentlessly march across our mind like a news ticker; rather, we are the stillness beneath the surface.
Later that evening, I listened to Oprah’s interviews with spiritual writer Eckhart Tolle as they dove deeper into this concept. Tolle explained that the voice of the ego—the mental news ticker—is constantly pulling us toward our past regrets and future desires. All that we truly have is the present moment, and that is where we find peace. Tolle traces this ancient wisdom to the Psalms, in the words: Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10). We encounter the divine as we penetrate through the noise of this world.
I recognize this thread in the story of Elijah, as God appeared to him on the holy mountain at Sinai:
I gradually began having more good days, but the bad ones still wore me down. Once when I was trying to rebound from a rough morning, a friend at work offered some guidance. “You are not your thoughts,” she said, and she let me reflect on those words as she sat at her desk for an afternoon meditation. Several minutes later, she took out her earbuds and called over to me, “You’re not going to believe this. Today’s theme is ‘you are not your thoughts.’” She set her phone on my desk, open to Oprah & Deepak’s 21-Day Meditation Experience. Sure enough, as soon as I pressed play, I heard Oprah’s voice echoing what my friend had just told me. Oprah explained that we are not the thoughts that relentlessly march across our mind like a news ticker; rather, we are the stillness beneath the surface.
Later that evening, I listened to Oprah’s interviews with spiritual writer Eckhart Tolle as they dove deeper into this concept. Tolle explained that the voice of the ego—the mental news ticker—is constantly pulling us toward our past regrets and future desires. All that we truly have is the present moment, and that is where we find peace. Tolle traces this ancient wisdom to the Psalms, in the words: Be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10). We encounter the divine as we penetrate through the noise of this world.
I recognize this thread in the story of Elijah, as God appeared to him on the holy mountain at Sinai:
The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave (1 Kings 19:11-13)
I’ve felt the power of the storm in my tightening chest, my quickening heartbeat, my shaking limbs. I've felt it in the thoughts that rushed like driving rain. The anxiety could consume my body and my mind, but it wasn’t me. I could let it go. I could stand at the mouth of the cave and find healing in the stillness.
This wisdom is all around us. Listen. Nature teaches calm presence, beckoning us not with words but with the quiet energy we long for. As a friend from work put it, our thoughts are like clouds. We can acknowledge them, then we can watch them float away to reveal the warmth of the sun and the energy of a blue sky.
As winter quietly blankets the earth, I bloom.
This wisdom is all around us. Listen. Nature teaches calm presence, beckoning us not with words but with the quiet energy we long for. As a friend from work put it, our thoughts are like clouds. We can acknowledge them, then we can watch them float away to reveal the warmth of the sun and the energy of a blue sky.
As winter quietly blankets the earth, I bloom.