Darkness filled the room with silence, the only sound available to me. My juvenile body felt a heavy weight. The rush of worry was loud and blaring like a fire engine. What could this feeling be? How did it appear out of nowhere? I didn’t have the answers to my questions or the words for what I felt. I convinced myself I would die by daybreak. The fire engine siren of my anxiety was set off for the first time at 8 years old. The noise was blaring, but quelled with the guidance and reprimand of my parents. I wasn’t told what worry meant, only that I shouldn’t lie awake and make trouble in the middle of the night. My young parents didn’t know the names of their emotions, let alone how to quell mine. The situation seemed like a one-off, but it started a pattern I needed to learn to navigate.

As I aged, I took the role of the careful child—the one who followed the rules and hated interacting with kids my age. I fit the bill of the “old soul” moniker with ease. The dreaded siren would ring from time to time, but it didn’t stay. It would shriek if I tried to do normal kid things. But, the protection of my family allowed for the unwanted fear’s elimination. How could it stay around when the wisdom of the adults in my life was present? It didn’t stand a chance. Despite the discomfort, I remained loyal to the knowledge of the adults around me. My logic was they had more years on earth, they had to know something more than I did.

My blind faith faded as I entered my late teens and early 20s. I questioned everything and everyone. My quiet rebellion wouldn’t allow the trust I had as a child to work its magic. My mind wouldn’t allow space for anyone’s insight. I was staging my covert insurrection, and the danger signal lingered. It would blare if I didn’t do well in school, fought with a friend, or upset any adults. My people-pleasing tendencies bred themselves during my teenage years. I would do anything to avoid conflict because it made the commotion louder between my ears.

I turned 31 years old in 2020 during a global pandemic. That year was my biggest mental health challenge to date. My alarms blared in my mind. My anxiety was at an all-time high because of the state of the world, but also unresolved issues. I used my quota for “my snooze button” and confronted the overwhelming pandemonium. I started therapy again and took it seriously this time. I had to shut that noise off, or at least bring it to a dull roar. Therapy provided the language I needed to describe the feelings that I had been having for so long. The work was both exhausting and eye-opening. I learned how to name my feelings to take away the fear that came with them. I built a toolbox of coping skills. Some skills were somatic where I would simmer my panic by submersing my hands and face in cold water. The bulk of my skills came from Cognitive Behavior Therapy or CBT. In simplest terms, CBT helped me redirect unhelpful thoughts to improve my mood.

Time and determination healed me. After a long time, the chaos faded of my own accord and not from the external resources I clung to. It went from a bellowing boom to a quiet static in the background. The room to think and put my coping skills to the test has been invaluable. The victory was the realization that I could trust myself. I learned I could care for myself and tend to my needs without outside intervention. Anxiety was able to live in tandem with logic. I didn’t have to get rid of it because I was defective or wrong. I concluded I was a being with a full range of emotions. The siren screams faded into the background. Self-acceptance replaced fear and allowed room for the beauty of the human experience.