“Dear Anxiety— I found you again scribbled in the margins of a day that was supposed to be fine.

I keep telling you the world you remember is gone, but you don’t listen. You never listen.

You press your weight into my chest until my ribs forget how to move. You whisper old warnings into my ear— run, lie, something’s wrong— even when nothing is happening except me trying to breathe.

I know you learned this from the nights I didn’t sleep, from the places I couldn’t escape, from the people that hurt me. You memorized danger like a language.

But I’m not there anymore. I’m not. And you keep dragging me back like a chain I’m still shackled to.

I’m tired of carrying you. I’m tired of pretending you’re helping.

Dear Anxiety— we need to talk, but every time I open my mouth you fill it with shaking.

I don’t know how to tell you I want my life back.”

Anxiety doesn’t just “show up” for me. It barges in like it still has a key.

I can be having a perfectly normal day—maybe even a good one—feeling proud of the work I’ve done, the healing I’ve fought for, the growth I’ve earned. And then out of nowhere, it hits. That familiar tightening in my chest. That buzzing under my skin. That sudden sense that something is wrong, even when nothing is.

It’s wild how fast it can take over. How it can make me forget, in an instant, every bit of progress I’ve made. It’s like anxiety waits in the corner, arms crossed, ready for the smallest crack to slip through. There to remind me of every old wound, every old fear, every old version of myself that it used to protect me from. It’s ready to jump in like it’s saving the day.

And the part that hurts is that it feels so unfair. I’ve done the work. I’ve peeled back layers. I’ve cried through the hard parts. I’ve learned the lessons. I’ve grown. I’ve healed. And yet… anxiety still acts like it has the right to narrate my life.

But here’s the thing I’m learning: anxiety isn’t the villain it feels like. It’s more like an overprotective bodyguard who never got the memo that the danger is gone.

My body remembers things long after my mind has moved on. It recognizes patterns—sometimes too well— and reacts before I even have time to think. It doesn’t realize that the threat is old. That the moment has passed. That I’m not living in those memories anymore.

Anxiety is old energy trying to do an outdated job

It’s the part of me that still believes I need protecting from things I’ve already survived. And while it feels like an attack, it’s really just a misunderstanding between who I used to be and who I am now.

So when anxiety hits, I’m trying something different. Instead of spiraling or shaming myself for “still” feeling this way, I pause. I breathe. I remind myself that this is just my body trying—clumsily—to help. I remind myself that healing isn’t linear, and growth doesn’t erase history.

I remind myself that I’m allowed to be both healing and triggered. Both strong and shaken. Both growing and still learning how to feel safe.

Anxiety may still show up uninvited, but it doesn’t get to run the show anymore. I’m learning to meet it at the door, acknowledge it, and gently tell it that I’ve got things handled now.

I’m not who I used to be. And eventually, my anxiety will catch up to that truth.

Here are some habits I have found helpful.

1. I come back to my breath.

Not in a dramatic or forced way — just slow, steady breathing. In for a few seconds, out for a few seconds. It’s simple, but it reminds my body that the moment I’m in is safe.

2. I move my body.

A walk. Stretching. Shaking out my hands. Anxiety builds up physically, and movement helps release it instead of letting it sit in my muscles.

3. I check in with myself instead of judging myself.

Instead of spiraling into “Why am I like this,” I try “What’s making me feel unsafe right now.” That shift alone softens everything.

4. I ground myself in the present.

Touching something with texture. Feeling my feet on the floor. Naming things I can see. Anxiety lives in the future — grounding brings me back to now.

5. I limit the noise.

Sometimes anxiety is just my body saying, “Too much.” Too much stimulation, too many tabs open in my brain. Slowing down helps.

6. I talk to myself like someone I care about.

Because beating myself up has never made anxiety go away. But compassion actually helps my nervous system settle.

7. I remind myself that this feeling is temporary.

It always passes. It always has. Even when it feels like it won’t.