As I sat in my bathroom tub, consoling myself and attempting to control my breathing, I whispered my mantra under my breath: “I am the sky, and everything else is just the weather.”
My struggle with anxiety is something I have always known. Funnily enough, a co-worker once told me I always had a “natural look of concern.” For the first time, it felt like someone saw through the act, not in a malicious way, but in a way that exposed the parts of me I tried so hard to behind smiles and overextended arms.
Maybe my anxiety is the reason I accept low-effort friendships.
Maybe it’s why I stay longer than I should.
Maybe it’s why I convince myself that asking for less is easier than risking being alone.
My mind maps out every scenario to its furthest extremity, the good, the bad, the heartbreaks and the what-ifs. Each move is perfected before it’s even made. And yet, anxiety still finds its way to steal my sleep and my peace.
This past semester, it finally brought me to my breaking point.
Each day felt like I was lost at sea, desperately reaching for a life raft that never quite made it to me. I kept swimming. I kept hoping. I kept believing someone would notice I was drowning.
But most days, I sank quietly.
What hurt the most wasn’t just the anxiety, it was the loneliness that came with it.
I found myself in rooms full of people, friends, classmates, family, yet feeling completely invisible. I laughed, I showed up, but inside I felt isolated. It’s a strange kind of pain to feel alone while surrounded by others, to realize connection isn’t about proximity but presence.
I began to notice a pattern: I was always the friend who showed up. The one who answered every call, rearranged schedules, and extended endless grace. I poured so much of myself into friendships that only existed when it was convenient for others.
And when I finally needed support?
SIlence.
Even within my own family, I felt pressure to be strong, the one who doesn’t add stress, the one who holds everything together. Somewhere along the way, I learned that being “low-maintence” meant being easier to love.
But it also meant being easier to overlook.
My anxiety has given me empathy, awareness and resilience. But it has taken comfort, rest, and the ability to believe I deserve more than the bare minimum.
This season of my life has taught me that loneliness doesn’t always come from being alone. Sometimes it comes from being surrounded by people who don’t truly show up.
Healing, I’m learning, doesn’t start with fixing anxiety overnight. It starts with choosing myself. With setting boundaries. I believe that friendship, love, and support shouldn’t feel like something I have to earn.
I am still learning to breathe through the storms. Still reminding myself that I am the sky, not the weather.
But now, I’m also learning that I deserve life rafts that actually reach me.