Some people believe that anxiety is just a passing worry, a fleeting moment of unease that disappears with a little bit of reassurance. But for me, anxiety isn’t a cloud that drifts away—it’s a raging storm that never truly leaves. Some days, it’s just a drizzle, light enough to push through. Other days, it’s a hurricane that tears through my mind, leaving wreckage where there was once peace. I’ve spent years trying to outrun it, to silence it, to drown it in substances that promised temporary relief but only led to more destruction.
It’s never knowing peace because, even in the quiet moments, my brain is preparing for the next inevitable crisis.
Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) isn’t just about being nervous. It’s waking up already exhausted from the battles my mind fought while I slept. It’s feeling my heart pound like a war drum over a simple text message. It’s my mind weaving catastrophes out of thin air, convincing me that disaster is just around the corner. It’s never knowing peace because, even in the quiet moments, my brain is preparing for the next inevitable crisis.
At my worst, anxiety became the gateway to addiction. The chaos in my mind was unbearable, and I sought refuge in the only thing that seemed to calm the storm: drugs. They were my false salvation, numbing the fear and dulling the relentless avalanche of intrusive thoughts. But that relief came at a price. What started as an escape became a prison. The more I used, the stronger the anxiety came back—more vicious, more relentless. I had to use more, go further, just to feel “normal.” It was a vicious cycle, a tug-of-war where both sides were trying to drag me under.
But now, something has changed. The last few weeks have been good—great, even. My anxiety has been manageable, under control. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I can live my life and function without constantly feeling paralyzed by fear. I can breathe without my lungs tightening. I can get through the day without my mind torturing me. I can enjoy the silence instead of fearing it.
“But this time, I know I’m not alone. I don’t have to face the storm on my own because God walks with me.“
I know I haven’t done this alone. God has had so much to do with the peace I’m beginning to feel. In the darkest moments, when I thought anxiety and addiction had beaten me, when my own mind was my cruelest enemy, He was the one who held me up. Even when I doubted His presence, even when I felt completely alone, He was there, waiting for me to let go of my pride and ask for help.
And yet, there’s always that lingering caution, that whisper in the back of my mind reminding me that the storm hasn’t disappeared—it’s only resting. It’s like walking on eggshells, waiting for the inevitable crack beneath my feet, wondering when the next panic attack will hit. I know it’s coming. I don’t know when, but I know it will. That’s the nature of this beast—it lets me rest just long enough to remind me what peace feels like before trying to rip it away again.
But this time, I know I’m not alone. I don’t have to face the storm on my own because God walks with me. My faith reminds me that, no matter how hard anxiety tries to bring me down, I have a refuge stronger than any fear. Recovery has taught me that while I can’t prevent the storm from returning, I can prepare for it. I no longer seek false escapes in substances that only tighten their grip on me. Instead, I anchor myself in the present, in the victories—big and small—that I’ve achieved along the way. I remind myself that I have survived every previous attack, and I will survive the next one too.
Some days, the battle is relentless. The thoughts still come, the fear still grips me. But I am no longer a prisoner of my own mind. I’ve learned that strength doesn’t mean never feeling fear—it means feeling it and moving forward anyway.
To those walking this path with me, to those who understand the agony of a mind that never rests, I say this: You are not weak because you struggle. You are not broken because your thoughts overwhelm you. And you are not alone in this battle. The storm may rage, but it does not define us.
I am still here. I am still standing. And even though I walk cautiously, even though I know the storm will return, I will keep fighting. Because God has brought me this far, and with Him, neither anxiety nor addiction will write the end of my story.
