Peaceful woman finding body and mind balance

How Mindfulness Helps Me Cope With Anxiety and Depression

When I’m depressed or anxious, it can be hard for me to remember what makes me happy or what calms me down. Every coping skill I’ve learned in therapy seems to fly out of my head and disappear elsewhere. I used to let the depression or anxiety take over and control my mind, and would be miserable as a result.

During my last hospitalization, I learned about a meditation technique called mindfulness. Mindfulness is the practice of bringing your attention to what is going on internally and externally in the moment you are in. Mindfulness doesn’t exactly rid your mind of negative or anxious thoughts, but trains you to accept them and let them flow freely without feeling bad about having them.

It’s hard to accept negative thoughts at first; you just want them to leave you and not return. But acceptance is an important step in recovery, and accepting your thoughts for what they are is important when battling anxiety or depression.

On my bad days, I try to be mindful in everything I do, not just sit and think mindfully. When I wake up, I am aware of how I feel. I’m aware of the warmth still in my body as I stretch, and am aware of the immediately negative thoughts I have about the day that hasn’t even begun yet. I let those thoughts be, and move onto being mindful about my surroundings. As I travel from my room, to the bathroom and into the kitchen, I am mindful of how the carpet feels between my toes and of the bird’s songs outside the windows. Already my negative thoughts are moving through my mind, making room for positive thoughts.

As I sit down for breakfast, I eat mindfully. I eat slowly, savoring each bite and each texture of the food. I enjoy what I’m eating, even though on my bad days I don’t want to eat. Mindfulness helps me to not only satisfy the hunger I can’t feel on a bad day, it helps me to truly find pleasure in something so simple as eating an apple. And finding pleasure on a bad day is so very, very important.


As I walk down the street with my daughter in the stroller, I am mindful of my surroundings. I notice the birds flying, the trees swaying and the bees moving from flower to flower. I notice my daughter look around, imagining she is being mindful as well. Children look at the world with such innocence and wonder, much like mindfulness has us do. I accept the worries swimming in my head for when we return home; chores, lunch to prepare, phone calls to make. I accept them and move on, back to observing the beauty around me.

When it’s raining, it’s hard for me to remain mindful. The weather matches my mood and I would like to just stay in bed. But I am mindful about the rain. I notice the size and the speed of the drops, and remind myself that water, even in the form of rain, is good. It is good for the plants, for the crops and for me. It washes away yesterday and prepares me for another new day. I used to let the rain, the bad days, control me. But when I learned to look at the rain mindfully, my mood toward it changed, just like my mind has changed when it comes to negative thoughts.

Remaining mindful helps me cope with my anxiety and depression. It keeps me in the present moment, and manages my worries about the past and the future. Mindfulness doesn’t make my worries disappear, but rather equips me with the peace and strength to deal with them. I was just practicing mindfulness on my bad days, but now I try to remain mindful on my good days, too. Since trying to remain mindful all of the time, I see my situation and the world around me in a more positive light. I find I enjoy the little things more often when I’m mindful; my daughter’s laugh, the neighbor’s dog, my mom’s cooking.

Without mindfulness, I would still be in darkness on my bad days. I would let my negative thoughts completely take over, leaving no room for an inkling of positivity. Without mindfulness, I may not see myself or the world around me in a realistic, positive way. I am glad I learned the technique during one of my most difficult times, so I could learn to use it in the most trying, and the most wonderful times. Mindfulness is not only just a form of meditation. I believe it is a way of life, and a natural medicine to help treat anxiety and depression.

 The Mighty is asking the following: What was one moment you received help in an unexpected or unorthodox way related to disability, disease or mental illness? Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.


Close-up of human hand holding megaphone against blackboard

When Anxiety Means Living Life in ALL CAPS




a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.

How does this translate to life with anxiety?

An imminent event being the next breath, phone call or face-to-face interaction.

An outcome being everything.

The best way I have come to describe my anxiety is that it’s kind of like everything is in all CAPS – ALL THE TIME. I talk in all caps and people ask me why I’m yelling at them. I walk in all caps and people ask me where I’m going in such a hurry. I breathe in all caps and it sounds like I’m in labor.

I’ve tried my whole life not to let my “crazy” leak out onto others. That usually means keeping everyone at arm’s length knowing with certainty no one would actually want to be in my presence if they saw me in all caps too many times. It’s exhausting when life is screaming at you all the time. Believe me.

I’ve finally reached a place, whether through the process of aging, being surrounded by the right people or divine intervention, where I feel less concerned about getting my anxiety on people. It’s part of me. A big, big part.

I try to be cool. I’m desperately not cool. I try to be calm. It doesn’t work. I try to be everything to everyone including myself. That never turns out well.

Some positive things about anxiety? I care a lot about everything. I will work really hard to make things the way I envision them. I am vulnerable. That’s terrifying but somehow it works as long as it doesn’t come out at the wrong time.

Lastly — I’m strong. It may not always appear that way, but I promise you when every second is as challenging as it is when you live with anxiety, you have to be tough to hold it all together.

What does a person with anxiety need? The same thing as everyone else only sometimes a little more.

It’s hard for me to ask for help of any kind. I worry it will be perceived as incompetence, weakness or laziness. It is in those moments of need I feel the insecurity and inadequacy that comes with anxiety. That little mean voice pops up inside my head — you know it, everyone has it — whispers, “Someone better than you could do this all by themselves. If you were really all you’re cracked up to be you could make this work. You should be able to do this all by yourself.


So in reaction to that mean little voice I know is full of shit, I still dig in. I become resolute to do everything all by myself. That makes me really tired. It’s not a good plan if your goal is longevity. I’m working on it.

Here’s the other thing about that though: Growing up as a kid struggling with anxiety and depression, I failed a lot. I never felt successful. Even when I did good things and never felt like it was enough to make up for all the places where I fell short. So now, even now, every opportunity to feel successful is one I relish and I cherish. It feels good to accomplish something. No matter how small. This doesn’t need to healthy or balanced behavior. I make people tired. I’ve been told that before, “Erin, you make me tired.” I think it was meant as a compliment. I tried to take it that way.

It’s hard to find people who accept and respect you even in the face of life in all caps. I don’t expect a lot from most people. I’m sensitive and it’s hard to let people in when you walk around with no skin. But when I find a person or people who understand, who get me, who don’t mind all of the nuttiness — I make sure to keep them in my life.

The older I get, surprisingly, the easier it is for me to let people in. Only a little easier — I still don’t invite people into a messy house which is why I rarely have people over… it’s always a messy house. I’ll happily meet for dinner, drinks, coffee or whatever. I have good friends — way more than I thought I’d ever have — and I love them. I’m learning to let them love me back. It’s really hard.

The movement of speaking out about mental health issues is growing. We are teaching the world it’s just fine to be sensitive, anxious and “weird.” Our diagnoses, no matter how severe, do not define or limit our capacity for greatness, achievement or love.

Remember It Runs in the Family – and we are all family.

Much love,

Erin xo

Follow this journey on It Runs in the Family.

The Mighty is asking the following: For someone who doesn’t understand what it’s like to have your mental illness, describe what it’s like to be in your head for a day. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

woman in dark corner

10 Things I Wish My Family and Friends Understood About My Anxiety and Depression

As someone who has suffered from mental illness for a long time, I understand people feeling weary about sharing their feelings with friends and family. Sometimes it seems like there is no way they could ever understand what you’re going through. In my personal experience I have found they did try their best to understand and support me; however, there are some things that may be difficult for them to fully understand.

1. Sometimes I cannot find an explanation for why I feel the way I do.

There are times when my anxiety and depression act up and I don’t know why. I understand there is usually a trigger, but sometimes even I don’t know what it is. Unfortunately, my mental illness doesn’t come with an informational pamphlet about what triggers it.

2. Being constantly asked if I am OK can lead to me feeling even worse.

Sometimes when you ask me if I am OK, there is honestly nothing wrong — the constant questioning can make me panic about whether I am unintentionally acting like something wrong. In this panic I manage to convince myself you think I am upset too often or that I am making up my illness. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t help it. 

3. Whenever I seem to want the most space is usually when I need the most support.

When I start to go into a depressive episode or my anxiety is particularly high, I try to isolate myself. I hide in my room or spend an immense amount of time outside of the house to try to stay away from people. When I’ve locked myself in my room it means more to me than you could ever know when you just come lay next to me with no need for explanation or words of any kind. 

4. Some days it really is impossible for me to get out of bed.

This one is particularly difficult for some people to understand. Whenever I lay is my bed “avoiding my responsibilities,” I really do want to be productive. I want to right that essay and take that online test; I just can’t bring myself to do it. I feel like I am paralyzed. And not being able to fulfill my responsibilities tends to make my anxiety even worse. I am not just being lazy or procrastinating; I simply cannot do it at the time. 


5. I don’t mean to avoid people.

Don’t take it personally if I give a “no” to your invitation to go out or don’t respond to your text. It’s not that I don’t want to see or talk to you, sometimes I just don’t feel like talking to anyone. I just need some time to sort out what’s going on inside of my head, and going to a movie or texting you about the newest episode of “The Walking Dead” makes me feel like I am never going to be able figure out my own brain. 

6. I still care about you, probably more than I care about myself.

No matter how bad I feel, I still want what’s best for you. When I genuinely start to avoid you, for weeks or even months at a time, it’s not because you’ve done something wrong; I just feel like you are better off without me. I begin to think your life will be happier without me in it and that my mental illness is dragging you down. Even if being around you makes me happy and forget about my illness for a minute (which can be the most helpful thing in the world), I will try to sacrifice that if I feel like I am an inconvenience to you in any way. In times like these I just need reassurance that you don’t feel like I am a nuisance. And I might not believe you right away, but it will help to bring me out of that downward spiral, and it makes me remember you care about me too. 

7. There are days when I feel completely numb to my emotions.

If I look like I am walking around like an emotionless zombie, that’s probably how I feel. Sometimes all of my emotions seem distant to me; I know what I should be feeling, but I can’t quite grasp the feeling itself. And sometimes I will feel like this and you will never know; since I know what I should be feeling, I’ve learned to act as though I am feeling this emotion.

8. There are days when I feel too many emotions all at once.

Opposite to not feeling anything, sometimes I feel entirely too much. This can manifest in many ways; I may feel sad, excited, angry, hopeful, desperate, love and hate all at once. So if I seem like I am jumping from one emotion to the next extremely quickly it’s because I am trying to hold on to one emotion at a time, but I can’t hole one long before it jumps to another. 

9. I am trying to feel better. I really am.

I don’t like feeling this way, and I would never choose to have a mental illness. Even if it doesn’t always seem like it, everything I do is an attempt to make myself feel better. Even if it’s something that seems self-destructive, at the time I genuinely feel like it will make me feel better eventually. I don’t like feeling like this because of how damaging it is to me and to you, so I try my best to fix it as well as I can. 

10. I truly appreciate everything you do for me

I know caring for someone with a mental illness can be difficult; we push you away or try to cling to you forever, and trying to pull us out of one of our episodes can be draining for you, but you do it anyway. I will never be able to express just how much your support means to me — the 3 a.m. phone calls where you’ve pulled me out of an anxiety attack, the times when you’ve calmed me down when we’ve been out, and I seemed super happy, but all if the sudden I burst into tears, and your constant reassurance that you’re there for me. Your support is what makes my mental illness bearable, and I cannot express just how much I love you for it. 

If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.

The Crisis Text Line is looking for volunteers! If you’re interesting in becoming a Crisis Counselor, you can learn more information here.

10 Things I Wish My Family and Friends Understood About My Anxiety and Depression

Close Up Of A Doctor Checking Blood Pressure Of A Patient

When a Doctor Finally Told Me What I Needed to Hear About Living With Hypochondria

Every cough is a predictor of lung cancer; every ache is a sign of some kind of skeletal disease; every headache is a brain tumor. Essentially, every bodily “abnormality” is a catastrophic illness.

This is life with hypochondriasis, or its kinder, gentler euphemisms: illness anxiety disorder or somatic symptom disorder. Yes, chances are you’re fine — you’re not dying and not suffering from some debilitating but unseen disease. However, the feelings and the certainty are all too real for those of us who know there is something terrible happening in our bodies, just below the surface.

Right now as I am writing this, my back hurts. This vague but persistent ache is in between my shoulder blades: I’m almost certain it’s my heart or some kind of tumor on my spine. Right now, I am resisting the urge to go online and find confirmation of this on WebMd, but that’s a whole different issue called, appropriately, cyberchondria. The point is, while most people would simply say “my back hurts,” get an ice pack and leave it at that, I cannot help but think I am headed for an imminent and unpleasant death and that this back pain is only the beginning.

Later today, there will undoubtedly be different bodily sensations. Whether it is a headache from staring at my computer screen (brain tumor), neck pain from tilting my head in the same position for too long (lymphoma), or heart palpitations from too much coffee (heart attack), my brain will probably diagnose my body with something awful. Once the diagnosis has been made, the thoughts will snowball. “Thought-stopping” and “mindfulness” are beautiful ideas, but they are difficult to put into practice when you are having a hypochondriac episode which, by the way, can last for days, even weeks or months. A few summers ago, I spent months and a lot of money visiting doctors, waiting for one to tell me I was terminally ill. I visited two emergency rooms at two different hospitals. I went to every urgent care within a 30-mile radius. I had EKGs, X-rays, even a CT scan. The diagnosis? I was fine. At age 34, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t yet succumbed to one of the diseases my brain had convinced me I had.


Surprisingly, it was an oral surgeon — not a psychologist or psychiatrist — who told me something I never forgot. I went to him because a discoloration on my tongue had convinced me I had oral cancer. This had gone on for months and had been accompanied by jaw pain and other vague feelings of oral discomfort. After a thorough examination determined that it was, in fact, not cancer, I asked the doctor, “What is it then?” (People with health anxiety usually do not rest until a diagnosis is made: that’s why we spend so much time and money seeking one out.)

The doctor said, “It’s just your brain remembering the pain.”

That statement has stayed with me. We should never underestimate the power of our minds to convince us of anything, rational or not. A few years ago, today’s back pain would have sent me running to the doctor or even hospital. Today, while it still concerns me, it won’t take over or ruin the day because it is most likely my brain sending me a catastrophic but misplaced thought I can focus on lessening in intensity. I can breathe. I can remember the progress I’ve made. I can give myself a break. I am probably not dying.

The Mighty is asking the following: What’s the best thing a medical professional has said to you related to your (or a loved one’s) disability, disease or mental illness?  Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

College Football Player Quits Team to Receive Treatment for Anxiety

On Sunday night, University of Washington football standout Isaiah Renfro took to Twitter to announce he was walking away from the team to receive treatment for depression and anxiety.

In a lengthy statement, Renfro explained he’d missed his school’s spring workouts because he had been in a hospital for “people like me,” participating in a rehabilitation program he said “taught me how to cope with my problems and what to do when I hit my lowest of lows.”

Renfro also wrote that being diagnosed with anxiety and depression makes it difficult for him to do a simple thing like get himself out of bed in the morning. Before being admitted to the hospital, he says he was in a dark place.

The football player’s decision to speak out is an important one. According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services’ Office of Minority Health, African Americans are 20 percent more likely to report serious psychological distress than non-Hispanic whites. But, only a quarter of African Americans, compared with 40 percent of whites, seek mental health care.

Paolo Delvecchio, Director of the Center for Mental Health Services at the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, praised Renfro’s actions.

“Honest conversations about mental health dismantle the prejudice that is often associated with mental illness,” Delvecchio, who himself has depression and anxiety, told The Mighty. “When a respected public figure discloses a mental health condition and the experience of seeking treatment, they lead by example, breaking down the misperception that having a mental health problem is a personal weakness. Most importantly, by their willingness to share their stories, they help give others the hope and the confidence to seek help and recovery.”


Especially among football players, this conversation is needed.

Now, Renfro said, he has a “better outlook,” but will step away from football and his studies at UW as he continues to recuperate.

“This isn’t the end of me, just the end of a certain chapter,” he wrote. “I will conquer this, and not let this situation conquer me. I’m on a journey to find my happiness again.”

Renfro told ABC News the reaction to his story has taken him by surprise.

“It’s a bit surreal — people calling me a hero,” Renfro said. “But I don’t view myself as that at all. I see it as just telling my story, to see if I could help one or two people. I didn’t imagine that it would help all these people.”

If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.

The Crisis Text Line is looking for volunteers! If you’re interesting in becoming a Crisis Counselor, you can learn more information here.

mom and daughter in ocean

Parenting Through Anxiety Fueled by Grief

When my father died I wasn’t prepared for it. It was supposed to be a happy time in our lives. I was pregnant with my parents’ first grandchild, and everyone was thrilled. My father had been diagnosed with lung cancer and was estimated to live a few more years. My pregnancy became the focus of happiness and life away from the inevitable loss on the horizon. We just didn’t know it was going to happen so soon.

When I was five months pregnant, we lost him and I shut down. Usually I have no problem talking openly about my feelings and understanding the pain that comes with them. This time, I just buried it all. I found it necessary to skip the grieving process to continue with a safe pregnancy. My focus was on keeping my baby healthy, positive and delivering her unharmed. I knew none of us could handle another loss. I had to be strong.

There is a price that comes with burying something so important. I found this out shortly after the birth of my daughter. It began with starting to feel panic over taking my baby in the car. I did it, but I suffered extreme anxiety. I would sit in my rocker and cry thinking about what might happen were I to be in a car accident resulting in her injury or death — how I would want to die if my baby died.

It wasn’t only just anxiety over losing her. I felt anxiety over her losing me.

Often I would need to pull to the side of the road to calm down when driving alone. I would hope people didn’t call me to have dinner or meet to go shopping because I was plagued with a desperate fear that I would die and my beautiful, sweet daughter would grow up without her mommy’s protection. I grew frustrated whenever someone invited me out. I resented it because in my mind it was a risk. I couldn’t leave my daughter. What if I didn’t ever make it back?

I started to experience dizzy spells when out in public. At the park, watching my daughter go down the slide I would feel panic beginning to take over. Chugging down the bottle of water I’d brought with me and eating a grain bar I would try and tell myself everything was fine, it was just a panic attack, nothing was going to happen. No matter how much I tried to talk myself out of feeling the extreme anxiety, it would never completely go away. Things got worse.


I began to have what my therapist called “daymares.” Basically I would have a nightmare while being completely awake. Going for a walk with my daughter I’d suddenly be taken over by a fear, and that fear would turn into a deep thought process where I envisioned myself passing out, my daughter left with no one to watch her as an oncoming car would speed her way.

These kinds of daymares happened often. My husband would see the look of horror on my face and question what was wrong. I didn’t know how to tell him nothing was wrong in reality, but in my head there was death, pain and endless fear. I realized I truly had no control over my situation, and I needed to get better fast. It wasn’t fair that my daughter had a mother who feared the world. My illness was debilitating and getting worse every day. When my husband won a trip to the Caribbean, my first reaction was terror — not joy, terror. All I could think about was how I didn’t want to instill this sort of fear in my young daughter. I felt like I was failing as a mother.

mom and daughter in ocean She deserved better, and so I finally began my grieving period.

I connected with my family, my therapist and did I could to come to terms with what I’d ignored for so long.

I no longer feel the fear of driving distances. No longer do I envision my child’s death. I no longer fear the future. I know this is not the last time I will experience anxiety and depression. I know this is not the last time I will experience a death. I just hope in the future I will be able to handle things better because there is someone relying on me and she’s not going anywhere.

Perhaps tackling the pain head on is the way to deal. I don’t know. What I know is I can’t allow things to go on as they did before. My daughter deserves for me to be the best parent I can be — the kind of parent my father was and my mother still is.

She deserves mother who can show her the world without fear — someone who can prove there is a silver lining behind every cloud and a dream following every nightmare.

If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.

The Crisis Text Line is looking for volunteers! If you’re interesting in becoming a Crisis Counselor, you can learn more information here.

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