Before I had the language for mental health, I didn’t have the words for what I felt inside my mind. Years of therapy allowed me to name my worries. Once doctors diagnosed me with OCD, or obsessive-compulsive disorder, my anxieties lost power. Dealing with this, I’ve had many mental dialogues structured this way:

“That pain is probably a heart attack.”

“You’re too young for that. Quiet down and keep your mind on something else.”

“I don’t know; my heart fluttered in my chest.”

“I guess to be sure, I should look this up.”

To Google, I went. My research was immediately flooded by the worst scenarios available. The flutter morphed into a dizzy feeling, which sent me spiraling further out. I started the search with a quiver and ended up so overwhelmed I couldn’t stand. Each possibility I read about only shone a light on what could be, not on what actually was. It led me into a compulsion spiral because I went down the rabbit hole of the internet. By the time I finished, new ideas of ailments I didn’t think I had popped up, and I felt worse than when I began. Sometimes the search wasn’t sufficient, so I would visit the doctor for tests. Now and then, the all-clear helped ease my fears.

Health anxiety ruled my life when I was younger, and sometimes still does to this day. The fear of losing control over my outcome terrified me. Having a disorder became a large part of my identity. I identified as the person who was afraid of her own shadow. I remember my 8th-grade senior trip to Six Flags Great Adventure, and I didn’t go on any of the rides with my friends. My fear kept me frozen and away from my peers. My mind went to all the ways something could go wrong on the ride. I remember the heaviness in my chest when they finally stopped asking me to go with them. I wanted to hang out with them, but ended up spending the entire day with a teacher instead. My excessive caution and tendency to overthink made me different from others.

My fears weren’t the only thing that kept me stuck. It seemed to take hold and wouldn’t let go.

However, over time, with experience and therapy, the loud voice of uncertainty quieted. That sound no longer dominated the room’s noise. It became a companion I confided in, not an obstacle hindering my pursuit of imagined perfection. My intuition developed in ways I never imagined possible.

When the ‘what ifs’ played out, I would stop them in their tracks by asking opposing questions to each one. Presenting the counterpoint allowed my brain to slow down rather than speed off like a runaway train. Frequently, this interruption would ground me again.

I also adopted the policy: “If the idea begins with what if, it’s often an anxious thought.” Many of my most fear-based concepts started with what if and usually presented an elaborate, untrue scenario. I realized I could use my imagination for good or bad purposes, and I needed to control it.

The speech in my mind felt trustworthy. I could rely on these words because I knew how to manage myself by accepting them at face value and not letting them run me. Daily practice refines my intuition, a pursuit I now feel empowered to undertake. I am no longer the person in the room who is afraid or less than my peers. My experience is as human as everyone else’s. Coming to peace with that has given me the chance to replace nonstop nervousness with actual instincts that have served me well.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero