I truly believed I had mastered managing anxiety. It seemed simple: just push it deep down, pretend it’s not there, and get through the day and tasks—even if it feels like my chest is about to burst. Writing it out now, it sounds silly… But it took me a long time to realize that denying anxiety isn’t the solution. Actually, quite the opposite.
For a long time, I thought anxiety was something you simply had to hide. Suppress it, deny it, mask it—as if it didn’t exist. As a woman, I was conditioned this way: keep going even when you’re exhausted.
Smile even when you feel like crying.
Look put-together and “presentable” even when you’re falling apart inside. This strategy works for a while—sometimes it even seems helpful. But when it becomes your daily default, it quietly causes serious harm.
This was my life. I got used to clenching my teeth, hiding how anxious I felt in certain moments, and only allowing myself to cry or feel scared under the covers at night. I thought this was normal. Then one day, for reasons I can’t fully explain, everything changed.
I was about to face an important meeting. My stomach was in knots, my palms sweaty, and my heart pounding like I needed to run away. My first instinct was to reach for the usual self-soothers: “It’s not that big a deal,” “Just relax,” “A chamomile tea will help.” (Honestly, who has ever solved their problems with just a cup of hot water soaked with herbs? Who managed to convince us otherwise?)
But that day, something inside me said stop. Suddenly, it became clear that thirty years of inner tension wouldn’t be eased by a tea bag.
Instead, I tried something completely different: facing my anxiety and understanding what I was really afraid of.
At first, I could only say: I’m afraid of failure. Then I dug deeper: why am I so afraid of it? Because I worry that if I mess up, everything will be exposed. That I’m not good enough, and I’ve just been pretending until now. And why would that be a problem? Because then I won’t be loved. And why do I believe love depends on conditions? Because as a child, I learned that if I performed well and was a “good girl,” I earned praise. If not, I faced coldness or disappointment.
Sitting there, it suddenly became crystal clear: I still follow the same inner rules that were written into me as a child. But were those rules fair? Was it right that a little girl’s worthiness depended on her math grade?
If I met that pigtail-wearing little girl now and she told me she got a B on a test, would I be disappointed? Not at all. I’d say: “You’re doing great, and it’s totally okay to make mistakes. Your value isn’t based on that. You’re lovable just as you are—not because of what you achieve.”
So if I would say this to my childhood self, if I clearly see this is what’s right to say, then why don’t I speak this way to my adult self?
Why can’t I treat the woman I’ve become with the same kindness and love? This simple realization shook my whole perspective.
I realized my anxiety isn’t some mysterious, unbeatable force. It’s actually a signal. An inner compass showing where my unresolved fears and childhood beliefs lie. And if I don’t deny or suppress it, but listen to it, it stops being an enemy and becomes a teacher.
This shift in mindset was freeing. Of course, my anxiety didn’t vanish overnight, but I no longer try to hide it at all costs, and I’m not afraid of it—I want to understand it. I ask myself: “What are you really afraid of right now? Is it really that big of a deal?”
Often, the answer is no. That my fear is fed by an old, false belief I’m ready to let go of.
And that realization is worth so much more than all the chamomile tea in the world.
