Dear Anxiety,

You speak with such authority sometimes.
Like you know me better than I know myself.
Like your fear-filled stories are facts.
Like your panic-driven warnings are the ultimate truth.

But they’re not.

You are not my truth.

You are fear.
You are worst-case-scenarios.
You are doubt dressed up as protection.

You tell me my body isn’t safe — but my body is stronger than you know.
You tell me I can’t handle hard things — but I already have, over and over again.
You tell me I’m broken — but healing is happening, even in ways I can’t always see.

You are loud.
You are convincing.
But you are not right.

I don’t have to believe every thought you send swirling through my mind.
I don’t have to obey every warning you scream into my chest.

I can listen.
I can notice.
But I don’t have to agree.

I am learning to tell the difference between you and me.

You are not my truth.

I am.

And my truth is this:
I am capable.
I am resilient.
I am healing.

And no matter how loud you get,
my truth will always be louder.

— Shanice