woman standing on the beach at sunset

Some Do's and Don'ts for Living With Anxiety


Hello, my name is Anxiety!

woman holding up a sign that reads: Hello, my name is anxiety.

At 27 years old, I began to live my life for the first time. Everything before this was a blur. Every sight, sound, touch, smell and taste was only something I had heard of. Every experience was mediocre. Life was bland. There was no substance. There was no sense.

It’s hard to put these feelings into words, but I will try. The best way I can describe anxiety is going through each day feeling as if you’re under water. Nothing is clear. All of your senses lack functioning. You’re overstimulated, and the only thing you can do is shut down. I cried a lot and it helped a lot. It was my outlet. I allowed myself to feel, to be vulnerable.

Anxiety is something that is too familiar to me. Since age 5, it had haunted me. It had controlled me, and it had torn me down more than once. It didn’t come alone. It came hand in hand, like peanut butter and jelly, with depression.

Depression. You know that rainy day that feels like it’s never going to end? Your mood is sad. You’re exhausted. You can’t get out of bed? It’s like that, only times 1,000! It’s not just one day, two days or even three. Sometimes, it lasts for months, sometimes years. You start to become a sucky person, flaky, insensitive and just over all a buzz kill. Not yourself.

From age 5 to 27, until the day I hit rock bottom and had no other choice but up, anxiety robbed me of my freedom. I’ve been to dark places. Imagine if you must. Never physically hurting myself, but, I’ve sunk into a few deep black holes where scary thoughts laughed at me while I wept.

Anxiety disorders are debilitating. No, I couldn’t just stop worrying. No, I couldn’t just relax or just breathe. I couldn’t just get over it. Trust me, I wish I could, but I couldn’t.

This is my first but not my last attempt at describing anxiety. My mission is to educate those who are dealing with it and who have loved ones who struggle with it. There is help, and there is hope. I’m so thankful this experience has allowed me to turn my mess into a message.

Here’s what I learned to be the do’s and don’t of anxiety:

1. Do speak to someone!

Anyone, a friend, a therapist, your significant other or even me!

2. Don’t think it’ll just pass on it’s own.

Sometimes we put too much pressure on ourselves, thinking we can fix everything. It’s OK to ask for some help.

3. Do everything possible to try to stay positive.

Show gratitude. Show compassion.

4. Don’t compare yourself to others.

Not on Facebook. Not on Instagram. Not in the magazines. Not in real life. Trust me! If everyone threw their problems into a pile, then you would act fast to grab yours right back.

5. Do redirect your thoughts.

Distract yourself. As soon as a negative thought attacks, be prepared. Think happy. Singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” works for me! (Judge if you want.)

6. Don’t forget: Out of your vulnerabilities, will come your strength.

7. Do what feels good to you.

If you feel like you need to stay in, then decline the invite.

8. Don’t be embarrassed to see a therapist.

Here’s a few sentences from a book I read and really found helpful when I was going through my funk: “No study has ever suggested that people in therapy are, on average, more troubled or demoralized than people who are not in therapy. Rather, they tend to be distinguished by the fact that they have chosen to confront the problems of poor self-esteem and inadequate contact with the self. They, thereby, offer us an opportunity to learn of great deal about the psychological condition of the general population.”

9. Don’t forget to be.

Be self-aware. Be present. Be yourself.




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Maybe It Doesn't Get Better


When your worst enemy is yourself 

When you overthink every decision 

When everything is wrong

When happiness is elusive

When silence means judgment

When pain feels normal

When feel like a burden

When you are alone in a room of people 

When you are never enough 

When your panic erupts

When your heart races

When the tears fall uncontrollably 

When your vision narrows

When you need to run

To escape

Certain death

And then 

When it couldn’t get any worse

It doesn’t.

It fades.

You focus on your breath.

In for four

Out for four

You continue to live.

You take the next step.

You do the next task.

You pretend you are OK

Until you are.

No one knows 

And you’ve mastered the art

Of faking it

Until you make it.

Because no one knows

Your debilitating fear

Of yourself.

And maybe it doesn’t get better

But you know

It doesn’t get worse.

Image via Thinkstock.


To My Dog Who Is There on the ‘Bad Days’ With Anxiety


Dear Stella,

You are, without a doubt, one of the best things that has ever happened to me. There were a lot of people who told me not to get you. They said I wasn’t ready for you. They said it wasn’t the right time. They said having you would complicate my life, and I would regret it. They were wrong. Because while you have made my life more complicated in certain ways, you have made it a million times better in just about every way.

You see, Stella, before I brought you home, I was sad and lonely. My anxiety made doing even the littlest things much, much harder. I had days when I felt scared to leave my apartment because the thought of going out by myself made me extremely anxious.

Basically, Stella, I was in a bad place, and I needed to get out of there. Seeing a therapist and taking my medicine was helping, but it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. That something was you. You turned my life around, and I just want to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

Thank you for getting me out of the house every day. Regular exercise and getting out in nature are both beneficial to my mental health, but it can be so, so hard to motivate myself to do this on my own. Left to my own devices, it’s a lot easier to hide under my blankets and feel sorry for myself than to get outside and work on feeling better. You don’t let me wallow all day, do you? As happy as you are to join me under the blankets and snuggle, eventually you’ll let me know it’s time to go outside and play.

Thank you for sticking by me whenever we go out. Sure, you like to go off and sniff stuff. You don’t always come back immediately when I call you, but you’re never too far away. You’re always happy to be there with me. This makes an enormous difference in how confident I feel going outside on those days when the thought of leaving my apartment makes me anxious.

It was never really the being outside that made me anxious. It was the being by myself in a place that wasn’t my space. Having someone with me can really make all the difference. On my bad days, I used to dread even walking a block and a half to Subway for a sandwich by myself. With you by my side, I have the confidence not only to walk around our neighborhood, but to take you out hiking and exploring the city and to go on adventures I never would have gone on alone.

Thank you for being my sounding board and practice audience. One of the issues with my anxiety is I sometimes get nervous when I have to do things extemporaneously. If there’s a phone call or presentation I have to make that I’m feeling kind of nervous about, then you’re willing to sit there and listen to me practice my script before I have to do it for real.

Thank you for bringing joy and laughter into my life. Living with mental illness can be a lot of hard work, drudgery and forcing yourself to do things you don’t want to do. It can be hard to let go of all of that and just laugh. When you came into my life, you brought with you your cute face, curious spirit, comical antics and love of life. Not a day goes by that I don’t have a good laugh or feel a moment of pure joy because of you.

Thank you for being calm and quiet when I just need someone to sit with me. Sometimes, that’s really all it takes to turn a bad day into a good one. For those times when I need my “alone time,” but I don’t actually want to be alone, you’re more than happy to lie on the couch with your head in my lap while I rub your belly and watch “Murdoch Mysteries” on Netflix. When I can feel an anxiety attack coming on, stroking your fur gives me tactile grounding to help me get through it.

Most importantly, thank you for loving me and letting me love you. Because one of the most important things people living with mental illness need is to love and be loved. The unconditional love you have shown me is a precious gift for which I will always be grateful. You are the best dog ever, and I love every day I get to spend with my little star.


Author’s note: I adopted Stella from a rescue organization called Operation Paws for Homes, and if you live in Virginia, DC, Maryland or southern Pennsylvania, you can adopt an OPH dog of your own at their website.


When Mental Illness Is Hereditary


As a child I remember my mom constantly saying “my nerves are bad.” I didn’t know that “my nerves were bad,” along with the little pills she took — and her alcoholism — were personal attempts to alleviate the anxiety and depression she felt.

Back then it wasn’t talked about. Children were seen and not heard, and that was just how it was. It was very confusing as a child. I didn’t understand why my mom was not happy and why her “nerves were bad.”

I struggled with anxiety long before I even knew what anxiety was. I just felt different than everyone else. I did not know the feelings and thoughts I was experiencing were what my mom had also been experiencing. Anxiety takes on different forms and manifests in different ways, and mine didn’t look exactly like hers. She cried a lot and I didn’t. She seemed so sad and for the most part I loved life.

By the time I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, I was already trying to find ways to cope. I sought help in many forms; counseling, life skills classes, psychiatry, doctors and self-help books, as well as writing journals and talking about it. I was doing all the things I had not seen my mother do, in hopes I would be able to ” get over this” and one day be free from the anxiety I felt.

As the years went on practicing and engaging in these strategies, my attempt to cure my anxiety has been relatively successful. There have been times where my anxiety is a mere faint existence and I can function with ease, and other times it has been debilitating, along with everything in between.

I learned to live and sometimes thrive with anxiety.

I thought because I was a living example of a good role model, and a different mother to my children than my mother was to me, my children would not go through what I have.


My daughter was 15 years old when I ripped apart her room in desperation to find out why my full of zest for life, spirited child was now depressed and crying all the time. I found bottles of Gravol and cough syrup which I learned that day were her ways of trying to deal with anxiety and depression. We spent the next three hours in the emergency room. The same psychiatrist my mother and I have seen was now seeing my daughter. I left that night with my daughter being admitted.

How was this happening? This was not how her life was supposed to go. She wasn’t supposed to feel and experience the things my mother and I had. I had made our lives different.

Where did I go wrong?

I went wrong by believing I had some super power over mental illness. I went wrong by believing being a great mom would prevent my children from having a mental illness. I went wrong by thinking I could love my children enough that mental illness wouldn’t “get them.”

I never wanted my children to feel what anxiety feels like, and although I tried to keep them from the struggles I had with it, I know there were times they knew and they witnessed my mental illness.

This didn’t make my daughter have a mental illness, too. It is not my fault. Sometimes I still have to repeat that to myself to make myself believe it.

I have three children. She is the only one who has been diagnosed with a mental illness.
Although environmental factors can contribute to mental illness, genetics is something I understand to be a huge factor in our family along with the environment. I have since learned about the long history of mental illness on my mom’s side of the family.

We always want to know a reason. As if knowing the why and how will make it better somehow.

Whatever the reason my mom, myself and my daughter have been diagnosed with a mental illness, the fact remains, that this is an illness, and no one is to blame.


My Son Has an Anxious Mother


As I sit at the computer thinking of how to put into words to explain how my son has an anxious mother, my anxiety rises. I think of who will read this and what will they think of me. Will they skip to the end to see how it ends? Will they empathize me? Will they pity me? Or will they think I’m unfit to be a mother if I have so much anxiety? What will they think of me? I talk myself out of it and encourage myself to keep writing because it’s OK. Because hundreds if not thousands of mothers have anxiety. 

I’ve lived with anxiety (and depression) for over 22 years and have learned to cope with it the best I can. Sometimes it’s physically painful, and other times it just sits there like an annoying stain you can’t remove from your favorite shirt. I had my son two years ago, and I’d like to say it was the best time of my life, but it wasn’t. He was perfect in every way, but my anxiety had other plans, and so began round I-lost-count of dealing with consistent and persistent anxiety. 

I joined two mommy-and-me classes where I met some great ladies and their children. That was two days a week. It was lovely. I thought it was great. We were getting out of the house, meeting people in the area and discovering other moms too were new to the area. We sang songs and laughed and learned. But my son wasn’t growing as other babies were. Or was he? The group leader at the Early Years Centre where the groups were held kept reminding me that he was fine and not to compare. Not compare? Me? Obviously she didn’t know me too well. I was anxious about anything and everything. During that time, my son was napping for 20 minutes at a time while other women’s babies were napping for two hours. Something is wrong with my son! My son had a flat head, but, as the physiotherapist told me, he was fine and it wasn’t a condition. He just had a flatter head (my husband too has a flatter head at the back). My son wasn’t crawling yet. What have I done? Younger babies were crawling; same-age babies were crawling. But not my son. I lived in constant fear that he wasn’t reaching his potential and that it was all my fault. I’m a terrible mother. I’m doing something wrong. I took many vitamins. I didn’t take enough vitamins. Why won’t this voice leave me alone?

Everyone kept reminding me, including my doctor, that he was fine. Not all babies crawl at 6 or 8 months. My son didn’t crawl until after his first birthday and didn’t walk on his own until he was 17 months. He just had a good time observing everything around him and wasn’t thinking “wow, my mom sure is anxious about me, I should probably get on my feet already.” Now add all that to the fact that I wear hearing aids. What if I can’t hear him? What if he falls and I don’t hear? What if he cried I can’t hear? The anxiety related to having a hearing disability really puts the icing and cherry on that cake. I have always been OK with having hearing aids (not really always, but I’ve managed) but having a child and worrying that I won’t hear him because of my disability is frightening. We use a video monitor, and it’s my best friend. But sometimes the power goes out and I forget to turn it on in his room and ah! I can’t see him! Is he OK? My husband reminds me that he can hear, and yes, the boy is just fine. Quiet equals sleeping, right? 

There were times I couldn’t calm my baby and was bitter at my husband for “doing it better than I could.” He wasn’t doing anything different than I was, except that he wasn’t anxious. My son fed off me like I feed off others. I was nervous, he was nervous. I was anxious, he was anxious. I couldn’t get it right. I battled with the thought that I am ruining our child. 

My son is now 2 years old, and my anxiety about him has never left. It’s always something else. He isn’t eating enough. He’s too short. His hair took too long to grow in. He isn’t eating dinner, again. At dinner time, I will leave the table and my son will eat his dinner with his dad because his anxious mother is finally out of the room. She isn’t hovering over him, forcing a spoon in his mouth, asking him if he’s hungry and ignoring his response of “No.” No wasn’t an option. He was lying. He has to be hungry. Why isn’t he eating as much as he did yesterday? 

My poor child. My anxiety is a battle for us, and it’s something I’m constantly trying to get a grip of. The time will come where I will need to sit him down and explain mommy’s anxiety and mental health issues, and I am not looking forward to that. How do I tell him? How do I explain that mommy isn’t superwoman, but an anxious mess? 

Wait a minute! Rewind that last sentence! 

Mommy is a superwoman, like all mothers who want only the best for the child and do everything for them to ensure they reach their potential. Mommy is someone who will love that boy more than anyone else in the world. We do our bests day in and day out, and we aren’t perfect. I’ll never be perfect, but I’ll never stop trying to be a role model for my son. I worry he will inherit my anxiety. I think about how to explain the feelings to him and how to teach him coping mechanisms, but then I reign it in… let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. My son is not an anxious boy; he is a busy boy. A healthy, curious, inquisitive, intelligent, typical 2-year-old boy who has maddening temper tantrums one second and is laughing the next. Deep breath, mama! You’re doing great! I often have to remind myself of that. He is fed, clothed, and has a roof over his head. He is happy. Why am I worried if he is happy? Because anxiety doesn’t give a shit. It is there, lurking over your shoulder like a creepy old lady at the slots waiting for your machine to cash so she can cash in. 

anxious mom holding her son

At the end of the day, I put my kid to bed and turn on the monitor so I can see him sleeping, and I’m content (for the time being). My son has an anxious mother, but I’ll be damned if I let that define the kind of mother I truly am. 


The Anxiety of My First Fall Not Going Back to School


Autumn is one of my favorite times of year. The weather, often rainy and windy, is my kind of weather. At the end of October comes Halloween, my absolute favorite holiday. Unfortunately, autumn is also a time when I seldom appreciate these things because of my anxiety disorder. For me, it takes an all-consuming, white-knuckled effort to keep it together during times of transition.

For the past 23 years of my life (with the exception of the first three or so), autumn has represented transition back to some sort of student existence. Before my pubescent years and the first major appearances of my anxiety, I can remember a part of me looking forward to my return to school, to see my friends and resume all the joys of recess and coloring pencils. Around 11 or 12 this attitude changed greatly, and autumn was the time of my first major period of anxiety and subsequent depression. I was so anxious that I couldn’t return to school for eighth grade until May of that year, and only after a major intervention and a lot of work just to set foot in a classroom again.

But I did it. I returned to school, graduated, and successfully completed five years of high school followed by four years of college. And yet every autumn brought a harder and harder transition back to the stresses of school, so much so that during college I began spending weeks at the beginning of the semester feeling completely unlike myself, plagued by constant dull nausea and crying at the drop of a pin.

So here we are, once again. The temperatures are a little cooler, the leaves are just beginning to change. And here I am. Over my 12-year relationship with anxiety, I have learned that any sort of transition, not only from summer break to fall semester, shakes me to the core. Change makes me question if continuing to live with an anxiety disorder is even worth it, dashing my confidence on the rocks, clouding my vision with unrealistic doubts and predictions. And now for the bombshell: this will be the first autumn I am not going back to some sort of student life.

Yes folks, I am facing a mother of a transition. Despite my best efforts over the summer, I remain unemployed. So I begin asking myself big questions, the ones hanging over my head like some anxiety-powered neon sign. 

Should I move to better my chances at finding a job in my field? Silly idea, I’ve never lived on my own and would undoubtedly break down within the first two days of relocating

If I stay and somehow manage to get a job will I be able to cope with that transition, even if it’s a “positive” one? I’ve been unemployed for almost six months. What if I can’t deal, and I back out, ruining my reputation and what’s left of my mangled confidence? What will I do then? What will I do? What will I do? 

I don’t know. 

I want to believe that everything will work out eventually and that I can continue learning to manage my anxiety more effectively. I want to believe I will find moments of peace once again, and that I am capable of success. I want to believe I will kick some proverbial ass and blaze a trail, light a fire. I want those things more than anything, but I just don’t know. 

So, on the advice of so many others (including my mom), I attempt to take it one day at a time. For someone with an anxiety disorder this is no easy task. I allow myself to cry, a lot. I challenge the thoughts that say I’m not allowed to do things I enjoy, to have a good time, and to laugh while I try to figure out my next move. I also remind myself that devoting all my time to worrying about the future won’t actually make the future better. I won’t have some epiphany or pivotal career moment if I worry hard enough. And I guess that’s the point. We can never be sure of the future, so I’ll try not to give all of my present to anxiety. 

If you or someone you know needs help, visit our suicide prevention resources page.
If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255

Image via Thinkstock.


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