For years I thought anxiety was supposed to look obvious.
Heavy breathing. Shaking hands. Not being able to leave the house.
I’ve had moments like that, but most of my anxiety has been much quieter.
It looks more like checking someone’s face when they walk into a room and trying to figure out what mood they’re in before they even speak.
I learned to do that pretty young.
Growing up, moods in our house could change quickly. My mom drank, relationships came and went and sometimes you didnt know which version of somebody you were getting.
I became good at noticing small things.
How hard a door closed.
The way somebody put their keys down.
A change in their voice that probably meant something was about to happen.
People sometimes call that being observant. For me, it was anxiety. I was constantly collecting little pieces of information so I could prepare myself for whatever might come next.
Even when nothing happened, my body stayed ready.
As a teenager, anxiety looked like sitting somewhere quiet in an oversized hoodie, writing lyrics on any piece of paper I could find.
I loved reading and writing because stories made more sense than people did.
A book told you what was happening.
Real life made you guess.
Later, anxiety looked like ignoring messages because I didnt know how to answer them correctly.
I would write a reply, delete it, rewrite it and then decide it was easier not to respond at all. Then I would spend the rest of the day worrying the person thought I was rude.
It looked like apologizing before anybody said I did something wrong.
It looked like needing people to tell me they werent angry.
Sometimes it even looked like being really calm during a bad situation, then falling apart hours later when I was finally alone.
That is the part people dont always understand.
Anxiety can make you seem prepared, responsible or really good at handling pressure. Nobody sees how exhausted you are from thinking through every possible thing that could go wrong.
During addiction, I tried to shut all of that off.
For a little while, drugs made everything quieter. But eventually they made me more withdrawn, more suspicious and harder to reach.
I lost track of time, people and parts of myself.
Recovery means I have to feel things again without immediately trying to escape them.
Honestly, that still sucks sometimes.
I still read peoples moods.
I still overthink messages.
I still notice when someone’s voice changes and wonder if I caused it.
The difference now is that I’m trying to pause before believing every thought my anxiety gives me.
Maybe the door closed hard because their hands were full.
Maybe the short text means they’re busy.
Maybe somebody being quiet has absolutely nothing to do with me.
Anxiety doesnt always look like panic.
Sometimes it looks like somebody smiling, helping everybody else and saying, “I’m fine,” while their mind is checking every exit in the room.
If that sounds like you, you’re not dramatic.
You’re not making it up.
Your body may have learned to protect you a long time ago. Now you just have to remind it that not every quiet moment is waiting to become something bad.
Kelsey Rodgers
💜