Alice Conquers Anxiety

Alice Conquers Her Anxiety

I am nineteen years old with a tall and wiry frame that makes me appear sturdier than I feel. No matter how long I spend to tame my long, dark, curly hair it never wants to stay in place. The way it frames my face, most people assume I am effortless, carefree and maybe even a little relaxed. The first thing people notice, though, are my black leopard-print glasses. Boy, do they stand out, a constant contradiction to how I feel. People compliment them, joke about how bold they are, and always ask where I got them. I thank them and smile, letting them simply believe they are a fun fashion choice. What I keep to myself is that they are my shield.

Behind these glasses, my eyes tell the truth. When my anxiety takes over, they darken, just like a storm gathering just beneath the surface. I have become all too familiar with the signs. My chest tightens like a phantom puppeteer tightening its invisible strings. All of my thoughts feel like racing cars, fleeting all at once. My awareness sharpens until everything feels too loud. Its subtle enough that most people dont notice, but obvious enough that I do. I always try and hide it.

Anxiety has followed me for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I thought everyone could feel the knot in their stomach before speaking at the front of the classroom or the feeling of dread when you walk into an unfamiliar space. I always assumed it was normal to rehearse a conversation in your head until it lost its meaning, lie awake at night replaying moments from thr9ought out the day or from the past that everyone else had seemed to forget about. It wasnt until I grew older that I realized not everyone lives this way.

At nineteen, anxiety shows up even in the smallest moments. Sitting in a crowded classroom, the harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a trapped insect, casting a terrible glare on the paper that made the words blur and flow together. I become painfully aware of my breathing, my posture, and how my hair is falling over my shoulders. When the professor asks a question, I can taste the metallic tang of fear in the back of my throat, my hands start to tremble and cling to the cold edges of the desk as the classroom becomes deafeningly quiet. My mind starts to fill with doubt: What if I am wrong? What if my voice shakes and everyone can tell? I rarely raise my hand, I stay quiet, convincing myself that silence is safer.

Ive had to learn to compensate by learning confidence. I dont allow doubt to catch up with me by speaking fast. I sometimes laugh too easily, because humor keeps those from asking deeper questions. Ive learned to wear bold patterns on my glasses and bold clothes to distract from the part of myself I am afraid to reveal. From the outside, I look put together. Inside, I feel like I am being held together by a pin.

For a long time, I had believed that hiding my anxiety made me strong. I told myself that needing help meant I was failing, that vulnerability would make me seem fragile or incapable of handling what life may throw at me. I swallowed my fear and carried on, pretending it wasnt there. The more I tried to hide it, the heavier that looming cloud became. Anxiety seemed to thrive in my silence; it grew louder the longer I refused to acknowledge it.

There were so many days when even the simplest of tasks felt overwhelming. Making a phone call, walking into a new building, or even introducing myself to someone new could leave me exhausted before my day had truly begun. I remember standing outside the classroom, my hand hovering over the door handle, heart pounding as if I was about to do something dangerous and not head in and sit down for a lecture. I had to stand there longer than I wanted to, forcing myself to breathe and relax my shaking hands. Moments like this made me.

My turning point came silently, not through a breakdown, but through exhaustion. I was tired of feeling like I was living behind glass, watching every9one else move forward with their lives while I stayed trapped in my mind. After replaying the same worries over and over again one night, I finally admitted to myself that it was not okay, no matter how much I kept pretending to be. Saying it out loud felt terrifying, even if no one could hear me, but it also felt honest.

I began to let my guard down, slowly. I decided to open up to someone I trusted; my voice shook as I explained how I have been feeling over the years. My mind expected judgement and dismissal but was met with understanding. Knowing I felt heard something shifted in me. my anxiety, I realized, was not a personal failure, it is a part of me, but it does not define me.

Learning how to live with anxiety rather than fighting it has been a slow but gradual process. Some days are easier than others. I can still feel my eyes darken when stress creeps in and I find myself reaching for my glasses to hide behind. Instead of panicking, I pause, I breathe. I remind myself that this discomfort is temporary and I have survived every anxious moment before this one and I will continue to survive them as they come.

I am beginning to understand that strength does not mean unaffected. It means that despite my fear, I continue. My wiry frame is not a sign of fragility, but resilience. Unruly as they are, my dark curls remind me that not everything needs or can be controlled to be beautiful. My glasses are no longer a defense or armor; they are just leopard-print and bold.

At nineteen, I am still learning who I am and what I want to become. Anxiety will always be a part of my life, but I will no longer let it define me. I am learning to show up when my voice trembles, speak when my heart races and being seen is easier than hiding. Behind the carefully constructed confidence, behind those glasses, is someone growing braver with every step and challenge. And for the first time, that feels like enough.