Anxiety Momster

Tag: Panic disorder

  • Today Was a High Functioning Anxiety Day—But I Still Showed Up

    Today Was a High Functioning Anxiety Day—But I Still Showed Up

    ⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post discusses health anxiety, panic, and fear around daily tasks.
    📌 Disclaimer: This blog shares personal experiences and is not intended to replace professional medical advice.

    Today was a high functioning anxiety day.

    That means I still did things—I got out of bed, I worked from home, I showered—but it felt like dragging myself through quicksand the whole time.

    I woke up already in panic mode.
    My chest felt off.
    My thoughts were racing.
    And the first thing I did?
    Check my heart rate. Again. And again. And again.

    Scared to Shower, But I Didn’t Want to Be Alone

    Even something as “simple” as a shower felt scary today.
    What if I got lightheaded?
    What if I panicked with no one nearby?

    So I asked my husband to shower with me. Not to fix me, just to be there.
    And he was.

    That’s what surviving looks like sometimes.

    I Still Worked—But It Wasn’t Easy

    I work from home, and I logged in like always.
    But today? I took a lot of breaks.
    I had to step away to breathe, to cry, to calm myself down.

    Every ping, every message, every task felt heavier than usual.
    But I did it. Slowly. Anxiously.
    And that still counts.

    This is what a high functioning anxiety day looks like for me:
    Smiling on the outside.
    Fighting for calm on the inside.

    I’m Not Lazy. I’m Overwhelmed.

    Some people will never understand this kind of anxiety.
    But if you’re reading this, I know you do.

    You know what it’s like to be afraid of your own body.
    To second-guess every twinge, every tight breath, every heart flutter.
    To survive an entire day without anyone knowing you were in panic mode the whole time.

    If today was that kind of day for you too—this post is for you.

    You’re not dramatic.
    You’re not weak.
    You’re just doing your best with a brain that never shuts up.

  • Breaking Down the ‘Strong Mom’ Stereotype

    Breaking Down the ‘Strong Mom’ Stereotype

    Challenging the Unrealistic Expectations That Are Breaking Us

    ⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post contains honest reflections on mental health, motherhood, emotional burnout, and breaking societal expectations.
    📌 Disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional. This is a personal reflection based on my lived experience. Please seek professional help if you’re struggling.

    Every time someone tells me, “You’re so strong,” I flinch a little inside.
    Not because I’m ungrateful.
    But because sometimes, I don’t want to be strong.
    Sometimes, I’m barely holding it together.

    And yet — moms like me, especially those of us managing anxiety, health conditions, and motherhood — get labeled “strong” like it’s a badge we’re supposed to wear with pride.

    But what if I told you that label is crushing us?

    The “Strong Mom” Stereotype Is a Lie

    Here’s what I know:

    • Strong moms cry in the bathroom while the food is cooking
    • Strong moms carry health anxiety and still show up for work and their kids
    • Strong moms sit in ER parking lots wondering if they’re dying or just panicking
    • Strong moms teach their children to breathe while trying not to fall apart themselves

    But the world only sees the outside.
    The clean house, the packed lunches, the calm voice.
    They don’t see the heart racing, the trembling hands, the exhaustion behind the eyes.

    I’ve lived this. I live it every day.

    I take my meds.
    I monitor my blood sugar.
    I fight through low iron, kidney issues, and the constant worry that something worse is lurking.

    And while I’m fighting all of that, I’m also homeschooling, cleaning, working, and trying to be emotionally available to five kids.

    So yeah — I’m “strong.”

    But I’m also human.
    And I shouldn’t have to hide the human parts just to be accepted.

    What We Really Need

    We don’t need to be strong all the time.
    We need support. Grace. Room to fall apart.
    We need people to stop saying “you’ve got this” and start asking, “How can I help?”

    We need to normalize:

    • Crying in front of our kids
    • Saying “I need a break” without guilt
    • Asking for help
    • Not always being okay

    Because strength isn’t about never breaking down — it’s about being honest when you do.

    Letting Go of the Myth

    If you’re a mom reading this and you feel the weight of that “strong” label — I want you to know something:

    You don’t have to carry it alone.
    You can be real. You can be raw.
    You can be soft and struggling and still be a good mom.
    You can fall apart and still be worthy of love.

    Strong isn’t the goal.
    Whole, supported, and safe — that’s what we deserve.

    — Shanice, Anxiety Momster

    💬 Want to Keep the Conversation Going?

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  • Breaking the Stigma: How I Talk to My Kids About Anxiety and Mental Health

    Breaking the Stigma: How I Talk to My Kids About Anxiety and Mental Health

    Anxiety isn’t a quiet thing in our home.
    It’s not hidden behind closed doors or swept under the rug.
    We talk about mental health openly — because in this family, it’s not taboo. It’s real. It’s personal.

    As a mom who lives with severe anxiety and panic attacks, I made a promise to myself: my children would never feel ashamed or confused about what they’re feeling inside. So we talk. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

    Supporting a Child Through Panic Attacks

    My 13-year-old experiences panic attacks that stop her in her tracks — chest tightness, racing thoughts, tears, and fear that something is terribly wrong. I’ve seen her clutch her chest and cry, “I can’t breathe.”

    I’ve been there too.

    In those moments, I don’t try to fix her. I sit with her.
    We breathe together:

    • Inhale for 4 seconds
    • Hold for 4 seconds
    • Exhale for 6 seconds

    Over and over, until the panic eases.

    This is how we manage anxiety as a family. This is what it looks like — connection, calm, and compassion.

    Teaching Kids How to Cope with Anxiety

    We’re not just helping our teen — even our youngest is learning.

    My 4-year-old doesn’t fully understand the word “anxiety,” but she knows how to breathe in and out when someone’s upset. She’s seen it in action. Now, she’ll walk up and say, “Breathe with me,” to her older siblings when they’re frustrated.

    She’s learning early what most of us didn’t learn until adulthood —
    your emotions matter, and you’re not alone.

    Why Talking About Mental Health Matters in Parenting

    Breaking the mental health stigma starts at home. In our house, we use words like:

    • Triggered
    • Overwhelmed
    • Calm down space
    • Grounding
    • Anxiety attack

    We don’t say “stop crying.” We don’t say “you’re being dramatic.”
    We validate, support, and walk through it together.

    How to Start Mental Health Conversations With Your Kids

    If you’re not sure where to begin, here’s what’s helped us:

    • Be honest — Let them know it’s okay to feel anxious or scared.
    • Share your own experience (in age-appropriate ways).
    • Practice breathing exercises as a family — even when no one is anxious.
    • Create a calm corner or safe space where kids can retreat and reset.
    • Use children’s books or videos to explain what anxiety feels like.
    • Normalize mental health days the same way we do sick days.

    We Get Through Anxiety Together — One Breath at a Time

    I won’t pretend it’s easy. Some days I feel like I’m barely hanging on. But even in the mess, I know this matters. Talking about anxiety with my kids has brought us closer. It’s helped them feel seen. And it’s helped me heal in ways I never expected.

    In this home, we breathe together. We cry together.
    And we show each other — you don’t have to go through anxiety alone.

    💬 Let’s Talk About It… Together

    If you’re a parent navigating anxiety — yours, your child’s, or both — you are not alone. This is hard, but you’re doing the best you can. And that is enough.

    ✨ Want extra support and free calming tools?
    Download my free Peace Over Panic Digital Journal and Anxiety Tracker — created from our real life, with love, for moms just like you.

    👉 Grab your free copy here
    ✨ Includes daily check-ins, weekly reflections, and breathing tools for tough moments.

    And if this post resonated with you, drop a comment, share it with a friend, or just breathe with me in spirit.

    We’re breaking the stigma, one breath and one honest conversation at a time.

    With love,
    Shanice – Anxiety Momster

  • Dear Anxiety, Stop Making Me Afraid to Live

    Dear Anxiety,

    You showed up again today.

    Right when I was trying to eat.
    Right when I was laughing with my kids.
    Right when I felt a tiny moment of peace—you snuck in and ruined it.

    You made my chest feel tight.
    You made my head buzz.
    You made me question if I was about to die, or just spiral again.

    And the worst part?
    You made me scared to trust my own body.

    I can’t even enjoy food without wondering if it’s going to make me sick.
    I can’t sit in silence without hearing my heart beat too loud.
    I can’t tell the difference between a panic attack and a health scare anymore—and that’s what terrifies me the most.

    You’ve stolen so much from me.

    Moments. Memories. Energy.
    My confidence. My joy. My damn peace.

    But you know what?

    I’m still showing up.

    I’m still writing this.
    I still got out of bed.
    I still laughed today—nervously, maybe—but it still counts.

    I’m learning how to track you.
    To name you.
    To strip you of your power every time I put words to what you’re doing to me.

    So no, I’m not cured.
    I still check my blood sugar more than I should.
    I still wonder if this headache is something worse.
    I still panic when I feel pressure in my chest.

    But now?
    I write through it.
    I track it.
    I talk back to you.

    And every time I do, you lose a little more grip.

    Sincerely,
    The girl you thought you could silence.
    —Shanice

  • Dear Anxiety: I’m Done Hiding From You

    Dear Anxiety,

    For a long time, I tried to hide you.
    Pretend you weren’t there.
    Smile through the panic.
    Laugh through the fear.
    Nod through the moments where my body was screaming inside.

    I thought if I just stayed quiet, if I just kept pretending, you’d leave me alone.

    But you didn’t.

    Hiding didn’t make you disappear.
    It only made me disappear.
    Piece by piece, I lost parts of myself trying to make you less noticeable to the world.

    Not anymore.

    I’m done hiding from you.
    I’m done pretending to be okay when I’m crumbling inside.
    I’m done acting like you’re not heavy when some days you’re too much to carry alone.

    I will not be ashamed of my struggle.
    I will not let silence be your weapon.

    Talking about you doesn’t make me weak.
    Admitting my fear doesn’t make me broken.
    Sharing my battles doesn’t make me less.

    It makes me free.

    You don’t get to make me hide anymore.

    I am showing up.
    I am speaking out.
    I am standing tall — even with the weight of you still trying to drag me down.

    I’m done hiding.
    You don’t get that power anymore.

    — Shanice

  • Dear Anxiety: You Are Not My Truth

    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

  • I’m Having a Panic Attack Right Now: The Real, Raw, Unfiltered Version

    Trigger Warning: Panic Attacks, Health Anxiety, Raw Emotion
    Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. I am just a woman trying to survive the war in my head. Please don’t take this as medical advice—this is my truth, my experience, and maybe yours too.

    Right now… as I write this… I am in it.
    Not recovering from it. Not reflecting back on it.
    IN IT.

    My head feels like pressure is building—like something inside is about to snap. I felt a “pop” earlier, not painful, but terrifying. It felt like a gunshot went off near me, except it was inside my head. And now I’m spiraling.

    My neck hurts. My shoulder aches. My arm feels weird. My chest feels… funny—not tight, not painful—just off. And my anxiety is feeding off every single symptom like it’s a buffet.

    And the scariest part?
    My mind doesn’t believe I’m okay.

    Even though I’ve had tests. Even though I’ve been told everything looks fine. Even though I’ve been here before and came out okay.
    My brain doesn’t trust it.

    People say “it’s just anxiety,” but they don’t understand how dismissive that sounds when your entire body is screaming that something is wrong.

    It’s not just anxiety. It’s:

    • My chest tingling and me wondering if I’m dying.
    • My head feeling like there’s a rubber band wrapped around the front.
    • My back hurting from how I’ve been laying with my laptop, and me thinking it’s something worse.
    • Me sitting here, literally begging God to let me be okay.

    I tried laying down—didn’t help.
    Tried rubbing Vicks under my nose—gave me a second of relief before the fear came back stronger.
    Tried breathing, drinking water, moving around, telling myself it’s just panic… but none of that stuck.

    I want to cry. I want to run. I want to scream and crawl out of my skin.
    But mostly, I just want it to be over.

    I’m so tired of living like this.
    So tired of wondering if every pain is the one they missed.
    So tired of feeling like I’m walking a tightrope between calm and chaos.

    Sometimes I feel like a prisoner in my own body, and anxiety is the warden.
    No escape. No peace. Just me, the thoughts, and this endless cycle of fear.

    But if you’re reading this…

    You’re not alone.

    This post isn’t about “how I conquered it” or “5 ways to stop a panic attack.”
    It’s just the truth. The moment. The reality of what this feels like right now.

    I know I’ll get through it. I always do.
    But right now, in this moment… I just needed to say:

    It’s happening. I’m scared. And I’m still here.

    And if you’re still here too, scared in your own way, I see you.

    Let’s breathe—one shaky inhale, one tearful exhale—until it passes.

    We’re not broken. We’re not crazy.
    We’re just surviving something invisible.
    And that’s brave as hell.

    Need something to help you track it all and breathe through the chaos?
    I made something just for us. Grab my Peace Over Panic anxiety journal + tracker, completely free:
    Download it here

  • Dear Anxiety: You Can Roar, But I Will Rise

    Dear Anxiety,

    You are loud.
    You roar with fear, with panic, with worst-case-scenarios.
    You try to drown out everything good, everything peaceful, everything true.

    You want me to believe that your voice is the only one that matters.
    That your fear defines my future.
    That your noise cancels out my dreams.

    But you’re wrong.

    You can roar.
    You can scream.
    You can flood my mind with doubt and my body with fear.

    But I will rise.

    I will rise on the days when breathing feels like a victory.
    I will rise on the nights when sleep feels impossible.
    I will rise through the racing heart, the shaky hands, the heavy thoughts.

    I will rise even when it’s messy.
    Even when it’s ugly.
    Even when it’s nothing more than a whisper of hope inside a storm.

    Because rising isn’t about perfection.
    It’s about refusing to stay down.

    You can roar as loud as you want.
    But you will never silence my will to live, to love, to heal, to hope.

    I will rise.
    Again.
    And again.
    And again.

    You can count on that.

    — Shanice

    These are my real, raw letters to my anxiety.
    Some days, it wins. Some days, I fight back.
    Either way, these words are proof that I’m still here, still breathing, still trying.
    If you’re fighting too, you’re not alone. 🖤

  • Dear Anxiety: You’re Not the Boss of Me Anymore

    Every day with anxiety feels different. Some days it whispers. Some days it screams.
    I’m writing these letters to speak back to it — to take my power back, one word at a time.
    Here’s today’s letter.

    Trigger Warning: Anxiety, Mental Health Struggles
    Disclaimer: I am not a therapist or doctor. I’m just sharing my real, personal experiences living with anxiety. If you’re struggling, please reach out to a professional. You are not alone.

    For a long time, you ruled my life.
    You whispered in my ear that danger was hiding around every corner.
    You convinced me that every strange feeling in my body meant something terrible.
    You made me second-guess every decision, every plan, every moment of happiness — because what if something bad happened?
    You wrapped your hands around my chest and squeezed until breathing felt like a battle.
    You stole hours, days, years of my life — time I can’t get back.

    And for a long time, I let you.
    Not because I was weak.
    Not because I wanted to.
    But because I thought you were protecting me.

    I believed your lies.
    I believed that hyper-awareness kept me safe.
    I believed that worrying was the same thing as preparing.

    But I see you differently now.
    You’re not my protector.
    You’re not my truth-teller.
    You’re not my “gut instinct.”
    You’re fear, dressed up in a thousand different disguises.

    And here’s the thing:
    I’m tired of letting fear drive the car.
    I’m tired of shrinking myself to fit into a life that’s ruled by panic.
    I’m tired of missing out on memories, love, laughter, LIVING, because I’m too busy bracing for disaster.

    You’re still here, sure.
    You might always be here, lurking in the background.
    But you’re not the boss of me anymore.

    You don’t get to make my choices.
    You don’t get to decide how my story ends.
    You don’t get to define who I am.

    I’m learning to live with you — but on my terms.

    Some days, I’ll fight you with deep breaths and stubborn hope.
    Some days, I’ll fight you by getting out of bed, even when my heart is racing.
    Some days, fighting you will just mean showing up.

    And some days, I’ll lose.
    But that doesn’t make me weak.
    It makes me human.
    It makes me a fighter.

    You can stay in the backseat if you want.
    But I’m the one driving now.

    — Shanice

    These are my real, raw letters to my anxiety.
    Some days, it wins. Some days, I fight back.
    Either way, these words are proof that I’m still here, still breathing, still trying.
    If you’re fighting too, you’re not alone.

  • Dear Anxiety: I’m Tired of Fighting You

    Every day with anxiety feels different. Some days it whispers. Some days it screams.
    I’m writing these letters to speak back to it — to take my power back, one word at a time.
    Here’s today’s letter.

    Trigger Warning:
    This post discusses real emotions related to anxiety and may be triggering for some readers. Please take care while reading.

    Disclaimer:
    I am not a medical professional. I share my personal journey with anxiety in hopes of connecting with others who may feel the same. Please reach out to a healthcare provider for medical advice.

    Dear Anxiety,

    I’m tired.
    I’m tired of waking up already feeling like I’m losing a battle I never agreed to fight.
    I’m tired of second-guessing every sensation, every thought, every breath.
    I’m tired of pretending I’m fine when my insides are screaming for help.

    I have tried to reason with you.
    I have tried to ignore you.
    I have tried to fight you.
    And yet, you still show up — uninvited, unwanted, unapologetic.

    You steal my peace on days that should have been beautiful.
    You make me fear things I logically know are safe.
    You make my own body feel like a stranger, a threat.
    You have turned simple moments into mountains I must climb just to survive.

    And worst of all — you make me doubt myself.
    You whisper lies in my ear that I’m weak.
    That I’ll never get better.
    That I’m broken beyond repair.

    But here’s the thing:
    Even when I’m tired, I’m still here.
    Even when it feels unbearable, I’m still breathing.
    Even when I want to give up, some tiny part of me fights back — and that part is stronger than you.

    I don’t have all the answers yet.
    Some days, I’m just surviving.
    Some days, I’m angry.
    Some days, I’m scared.
    But every day I wake up, I’m still in the fight.
    And that makes me brave in ways you’ll never understand.

    So, dear Anxiety —
    You don’t win today.
    Not because I’m fearless.
    But because I’m choosing to show up anyway.
    And that’s something you can never take from me.

    — Shanice

    If you’re fighting your own invisible battles today, know this: you are not weak for feeling tired. You are strong because you keep going. And you are never, ever alone

    These are my real, raw letters to my anxiety.
    Some days, it wins. Some days, I fight back.
    Either way, these words are proof that I’m still here, still breathing, still trying.
    If you’re fighting too, you’re not alone.