Anxiety is a thief. It steals your breath, your peace, and, at times, your will to fight. For those of us who battle Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), the weight of it can feel like carrying an invisible anchor—dragging it behind us while the world expects us to run. Yet, it’s an anchor no one else sees, and explaining its weight to someone who’s never felt it is like describing color to someone who’s never opened their eyes.
Every morning begins with a ritual—five pills, each one small but powerful, their shapes and colors a reminder of the fragility of my sanity. This cocktail of chemicals isn’t a cure; it’s a patchwork quilt over a broken window. It keeps the storm out, but I still hear the howling wind. Nights bring another round—four more pills to calm the restless mind, to silence the thousand ‘what-ifs’ that scream like a chorus of crows in my head.
How do you explain this to someone who doesn’t understand? How do you tell them that without these pills, I am a shadow of myself, lost in a fog of worry so thick it feels like drowning? The truth is, you can’t. Words fail. Anxiety is not just fear; it is fear’s relentless cousin, always lingering, always waiting for a crack to slip through.
But here’s the thing: I am not my anxiety. I may carry it, but it does not define me. Living with GAD has taught me a hard truth—resilience is forged in fire. Every pill I take, every breath I focus on, every moment I choose to keep going is an act of defiance. Anxiety may knock me down, but it will not keep me there.
Some days, it feels like I am at war with my own mind. My thoughts are insurgents, setting traps, ambushing me when I least expect it. But I’ve learned to be a warrior in this battle. I arm myself with therapy, medication, and the unyielding belief that tomorrow can be better. And when that belief wavers, I remind myself: even the heaviest storms eventually pass.
If you’re reading this and you know the weight of that invisible anchor, know this—you are not alone. I know what it feels like to sit in a crowded room and feel like the only person drowning. I know the guilt of needing pills to function, the shame of not being able to simply “get over it.” But I also know the strength it takes to keep showing up, to keep trying, to keep believing in yourself when everything inside you screams to give up.
Anxiety may be a thief, but it does not have to steal your light. You are more than the weight you carry. Every breath you take, every step forward, is a testament to your strength. You are not weak for needing help; you are brave for seeking it.
So, keep fighting. Keep breathing. One day, the anchor will feel lighter. And on that day, you’ll look back and realize you’ve been stronger than you ever knew.
