If I had heard this story under different circumstances, I might have laughed. Now, I can only make light of my misery. And even though I sometimes feel judged by the world, I keep going. In small steps. For myself.
My mom was always anxious. One of her fears was that something might happen to me. Wherever I went, she passed on her worries to others. If I went out with my dad, she’d instruct him: “Take care of her.” If I went with my grandmother, she’d say the same: “Take care of the girl.” Simple phrases, repeated over and over, which, without realizing it, marked me subconsciously. They made me believe the world was a dangerous place, that I always had to be vigilant, that I had to prevent misfortune before it even happened.
Yet, my childhood was beautiful. Mischievous, free, without fears, without dark scenarios. But just as I was entering adolescence, my mom died. And then everything changed.
The grief after losing her was enormous, and the other adults around me were too absorbed in their own suffering to notice that I was about to enter the world of anxiety. I was no longer the mischievous child, but a lonely girl, prey to thoughts and fears that I didn’t know how to manage. A struggle not everyone understands, one I had to keep hidden. To hide the nightmare I was living through, to play the role of the “normal,” “well-behaved” child who knew how to behave. Exhausting doesn’t even begin to cover it. It was a constant effort, day after day, to survive in a world where no one really knew what I was going through.
Today, I’m grateful I can work from home. A daily commute would have drained me completely, and not just physically. My mind would have spun hundreds of scenarios: what if I panic on the subway? What if I have an attack in a meeting? What if I run, or scream, or collapse in front of everyone? What would my coworkers think? What would people say?
But today, I decided to try something seemingly simple: to go down a few stairs. Ordinary apartment stairs, but for me, they seem scattered with invisible monsters ready to kill me.
I open the door and look down. The second floor. So far away. The place of despair. My heart pounds wildly, my breathing becomes heavy, my pulse shakes my chest. “What if I faint?” “What if I die here?” “What if I don’t make it back?” The thoughts grow with every step. The air feels too heavy. My legs tremble. Every step feels like a threat.
I call my best friend. To be a witness. In case I don’t make it back. Just like other girls text their friends when they get into a taxi at night and, as a safety measure, send the license plate number, we let each other know we’ve gone out with anxiety for a walk.
My flared jeans get caught in my sneakers. One step. Another. Each step is a dialogue between fear and courage. I feel myself shaking, my breath cut off, my heart leaping in my chest. It’s a battle between reality and what my body tells me: that something bad is about to happen.
And yet, I reach the second floor. Further down. One more flight, a few more steps. And suddenly, I’m outside.
VICTORY!
Real air. Not just the filtered kind from the window. I feel it in my lungs, my feet, my veins. I wobble slightly, but I smile.
Someone else might say, “So what? Big deal, you went down to the front of the building.”
But if you knew what it’s like to live with a mind that constantly imagines catastrophic scenarios, you’d understand.
My friend knows. She knows what it means to be surrounded by panic, how it turns your breathing, your pulse, your dizziness, everything, into a threat. She knows how important these small victories are. How crucial it is for someone with panic disorder to normalize things that others might do automatically, without thinking.
I never thought I’d get here: feeling immense effort and yet also a sense of accomplishment for simply stepping outside in front of my building.
I tell my friend on the phone:
— I’m proud of a crappy little thing… but you know it matters to me, right?
We laugh. Out of despair, maybe, or gratitude. Because I’m still breathing.
I think of my mom. Her obsessive care: “Take care of yourself.”
And I realize that today, without her, I was the one who carried my own care and won an invisible battle.
Today, I went down a few stairs.
But more than that, I went down a part of my fear.
I breathed real air. Not just from the window. Every breath reminds me I’m still here.
Sometimes, courage doesn’t mean facing the world. It just means opening the door and stepping outside.