Anxiety Momster

Tag: writing

  • 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: Some Days, I Just Need to Cry

    Dear Anxiety,

    Some days, fighting you feels too heavy.
    Some days, carrying all this fear, all this tension, all this weight — feels like too much.

    And on those days, I don’t want advice.
    I don’t want affirmations.
    I don’t want to hear how strong I am.

    I just need to cry.

    Not because I’m weak.
    Not because I’m giving up.
    But because crying is a release that my body, my heart, and my soul sometimes desperately need.

    I don’t owe you constant strength, Anxiety.
    I don’t owe you constant toughness.
    I don’t have to be a warrior every single second.

    Some days, I’m just a human who’s tired.
    Who’s scared.
    Who’s overwhelmed.

    And today, I let myself cry.
    Without shame.
    Without judgment.
    Without apology.

    Because healing doesn’t always look brave.
    Sometimes it just looks like tears falling quietly in the dark —
    and still waking up tomorrow to try again.

    I’m not weak for crying.
    I’m strong because I let myself feel.

    And no matter how many tears fall,
    you still don’t break me.

    — Shanice

  • Dear Anxiety: I Miss Who I Used to Be

    Dear Anxiety,

    Sometimes, late at night, when the world is quiet and my mind won’t stop spinning,
    I think about the person I was before you took over.
    The girl who laughed without second-guessing it.
    The woman who made plans without fear creeping in.
    The version of me who didn’t feel broken all the time.

    I miss her.

    I miss waking up without immediately checking my body for signs of danger.
    I miss trusting a good day without questioning if it’s “too good to be true.”
    I miss feeling free in ways that now feel foreign to me.

    You changed me, Anxiety.
    You made me cautious, scared, small.
    You made me doubt my own body, my own mind, my own instincts.

    And there’s a part of me that still grieves for who I used to be.
    For the easy smiles.
    For the carefree moments.
    For the peace I didn’t even know I had back then.

    But here’s something you didn’t take:
    My ability to grow.
    My stubborn hope.
    My strength to rebuild — even if it looks different now.

    Maybe I’ll never be exactly who I used to be.
    Maybe I’m not supposed to be.
    Maybe the girl I miss made room for the woman who fights every single day to stay standing.

    Maybe that’s the point.

    So yeah, I miss her sometimes.
    But I’m learning to love who I’m becoming too.
    Even if it’s messy.
    Even if it’s hard.
    Even if I carry scars.

    I’m still here.
    And you don’t get to write the ending of my story.

    I do.

    — 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: Healing Doesn’t Look Like I Thought It Would

    Dear Anxiety,

    When I first started trying to heal, I thought it would be a straight line.
    I thought I’d hit milestones, check off boxes, and eventually leave you behind like a bad memory.

    But healing with you isn’t neat.
    It’s messy.
    It’s confusing.
    It’s two steps forward, three steps back, and sometimes just sitting still and surviving.

    Some days, I feel strong.
    Other days, I feel like the same scared, exhausted person I was at my worst.

    Healing doesn’t mean you’re gone.
    It means I’m learning how to live without letting you control every part of me.

    I thought healing would feel like a victory parade.
    Instead, it feels like a quiet, stubborn decision I make over and over again:
    I will not give up on myself.

    Even when you scream.
    Even when fear clouds my mind.
    Even when doubt seeps in.

    Healing isn’t loud.
    It isn’t obvious.
    Sometimes it’s as small as breathing through one more panic wave.
    Sometimes it’s celebrating the moments you didn’t completely ruin.

    And that’s enough for me.

    I’m healing.
    Messy, imperfect, beautiful healing.

    You don’t get to take that from me.

    — Shanice

  • Dear Anxiety: I’m Learning to Live Alongside You

    Dear Anxiety,

    For a long time, I thought the goal was to get rid of you completely.
    To silence you.
    To fight you into nonexistence.

    And maybe that’s still the dream —
    But I’m starting to realize something:
    Maybe healing doesn’t always mean making you disappear.
    Maybe it means learning to live alongside you without letting you run the show.

    I don’t like you.
    I don’t welcome you.
    But I’m learning that I don’t have to fear you the way I used to.

    You can show up, pounding at the door of my mind,
    but I don’t have to let you move in and rearrange my whole life every time.

    I can feel the fear without letting it decide for me.
    I can notice the panic without spiraling every single time.
    I can acknowledge your voice without letting it become my truth.

    Living with you isn’t easy.
    There are days you still knock the wind out of me.
    There are moments I still feel like I’m back at square one.
    But I’m not.

    Every breath I take without letting you take over — that’s progress.
    Every moment I choose to keep going despite the fear — that’s strength.
    Every small decision I make for me and not for you — that’s healing.

    I’m not perfect at this.
    Some days, I still stumble.
    Some days, you still scream louder than I’d like to admit.

    But I’m not running from you anymore.
    I’m learning how to live.
    I’m learning how to stay.
    I’m learning how to be me — even with you standing in the background.

    You don’t get to erase my life.
    Not anymore.

    I’m taking it back.
    One shaky, stubborn, beautiful step at a time.

    — 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 Don’t Get to Steal My Joy

    Dear Anxiety,

    You have stolen enough from me.
    Moments that should have been filled with laughter — you filled with fear.
    Milestones that should have felt like victories — you shadowed with doubt.
    Ordinary days that could have been peaceful — you twisted into battles.

    You tried to make me believe that being happy was dangerous.
    That if I smiled too big or laughed too loud, something bad would happen.
    You trained me to brace for impact even when nothing was wrong.

    But I’m starting to see you for what you really are:
    You’re a thief.
    You sneak in quietly, tiptoeing into my good moments, and whisper “what if” until the joy fades away.

    Not anymore.

    I’m reclaiming my moments — messy, imperfect, beautiful moments.
    I’m letting myself feel joy even if my hands are still a little shaky.
    I’m letting myself laugh even if fear is waiting around the corner.
    I’m letting myself live even when you tell me it’s not safe to.

    Because joy is not something I have to earn by worrying enough.
    Joy is not something you get to dangle in front of me like a trick.

    Joy is mine.
    It always has been.
    It always will be.

    You might still show up, uninvited and unwanted.
    You might still try to plant seeds of fear in the middle of my happiness.
    But I’m not giving you the power to steal from me anymore.

    I choose to protect my joy.
    I choose to celebrate my good days without apology.
    I choose to believe that I deserve peace — even when you’re screaming that I don’t.

    You don’t get to win.
    Not today.
    Not tomorrow.
    Not ever.

    — 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: When Fear Feels Louder Than Hope

    Dear Anxiety,

    Some days, no matter how hard I try, your voice is louder than anything else.
    You wrap your hands around my mind and squeeze until all I can hear is the worst-case scenario.
    You shout over the good things, drown out the small wins, smother the sparks of hope I try so hard to hold onto.

    You tell me danger is everywhere.
    You tell me I’m one breath away from disaster.
    You make my body feel like a battlefield even when I’m sitting in a safe, quiet room.

    Today was one of those days.

    Today, your fear felt bigger than my dreams.
    Louder than my logic.
    Heavier than my hope.

    But here’s what you didn’t realize:
    Even when you were roaring inside my head, something quieter survived.

    A tiny, stubborn flicker of hope stayed lit.
    It wasn’t loud.
    It wasn’t flashy.
    It was just there — steady, patient, refusing to be extinguished by your chaos.

    And that flicker?
    That is mine.
    Not yours.

    You can scream.
    You can threaten.
    You can flood my body with fear and make my hands shake and my chest ache — but you cannot have my hope.

    Even if it’s small.
    Even if it’s hidden behind tired eyes and heavy breaths.
    It still belongs to me.

    And I will protect it with everything I have.
    Because every day that I hold onto even a sliver of hope…
    Is a day you don’t win.

    I’m still here.
    I’m still breathing.
    I’m still fighting.

    You are loud, Anxiety.
    But I am louder.

    — 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.

  • Sometimes I Cry and Don’t Know Why

    ⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post contains personal experiences related to anxiety, overwhelm, and emotional release. Please take care of your mental space as you read.

    Disclaimer:
    I’m not a doctor, therapist, or licensed mental health professional. I’m just a mom living with anxiety, sharing my personal experiences in hopes that they help someone else feel less alone. Nothing in this blog should be taken as medical advice. Please speak with a professional if you’re struggling — you deserve support.

    🫧 It just hits me

    There are days I wake up already on the verge of tears.
    No warning. No fight. No “bad news.” Just a heaviness in my chest that won’t go away.
    And sometimes… I cry. And I can’t even tell you why.

    There’s no one thing.
    There’s no big trigger.
    There’s just… everything. All at once.

    💔 It feels like this:

    • My throat tightens.
    • My chest feels like it’s holding in a scream.
    • My thoughts start spinning.
    • I feel guilty for crying — like I “should” be fine.
    • I feel embarrassed even when I’m alone.

    And sometimes, I cry quietly in the bathroom so no one sees.
    Sometimes, I cry in the car after holding it in all day.
    And sometimes, I just cry in bed because I don’t have the strength to do anything else.

    🧠 What I’ve realized over time:

    Sometimes the tears are for things I never had the chance to process.
    Sometimes they’re for the fear I carry in silence.
    Sometimes they’re for the pressure of being “strong” when I feel anything but.
    Sometimes they’re just because I’m exhausted.

    Crying isn’t weakness.
    It’s your nervous system trying to reset.
    It’s your body asking for grace.
    It’s your soul waving a little white flag saying, “I just need a minute.”

    💡 What helps when the tears come:

    • I stop asking “why” and just let it happen.
    • I talk to myself the way I’d talk to a friend: “It’s okay to feel this. It’s okay to not have a reason.”
    • I do something small that brings me back: wash my face, change my shirt, step outside, hug my kids.
    • I don’t shame myself for being human.

    🖤 You’re allowed to feel it.

    Even when it doesn’t make sense.
    Even when it feels “dramatic.”
    Even when no one else sees what you’re carrying.

    This is your reminder that tears are not a failure.
    They are a release.
    They are a reset.
    They are real.

    And if you cried today — or cry after reading this — that’s okay.

    Me too.

  • ✨ I’m Still Here: What It Feels Like to Survive Another Anxiety Episode

    Tonight, I felt like I was dying. Again.

    It crept in, like it always does — quiet at first, then full-blown chaos. My head felt funny, my stomach flipped, and my brain told me it was something serious. A brain tumor. An aneurysm. Something fatal.

    My hands got cold. My chest tightened.
    I wanted to cry, scream, and run. I wanted it to stop.

    And yet…
    Here I am.
    Still breathing.
    Still here.

    (more…)