I used to think I was just bad at life. That was the only way I could explain it. Everyone else seemed to be handling things—lessons, friends, school trips, parents, decisions. I felt like I was always behind, even when I was technically doing okay.
When I was 14, I started getting stomach aches before school. Not just butterflies—real pain. I’d sit at the end of my bed in the morning, fully dressed, not quite able to stand up. Sometimes I’d pace around. Sometimes I’d lie back down and tell myself I just needed five more minutes. Sometimes I’d cry and not really know why.
I didn’t know to call it anxiety. I just thought something was wrong with me.
I was good at hiding it. I got good marks, didn’t get into trouble, laughed at the right times. But inside, I was constantly scanning for something to go wrong. A pop quiz. Someone asking me a question I didn’t know the answer to. A friend going quiet and me assuming I’d upset them. My parents arguing in the kitchen. I carried all of it like it was mine to fix.
I never told anyone. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I didn’t want to seem dramatic or weak. Besides, I didn’t have the right words. I just felt… on edge. All the time.
Then one day, in form time, we had a visitor talk about mental health. I don’t remember everything she said, but one sentence stuck in my chest like a pin:
“Anxiety isn’t always panic attacks—it’s also overthinking, avoidance, and feeling like you’re constantly bracing for impact.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything. But something shifted. It was the first time I realised this might be a real thing—not just a personal failure.
A few weeks later, a teacher asked me to stay back after class. She said she’d noticed I’d been quieter than usual and asked if everything was okay. I gave the usual “I’m fine,” but she didn’t rush. She just sat there and let the silence hang. Eventually, I said, “I just get stressed really easily.”
That turned into a longer conversation. She didn’t push, just asked a few questions and listened. She gave me a little card with the school counsellor’s name on it and said I didn’t have to go—but that I could if I wanted.
I kept that card in my blazer pocket for three weeks before I used it.
Talking to someone didn’t magically fix everything. I still got that tight feeling in my chest. I still struggled with crowded corridors and overthinking every social interaction. But now I had a name for it. Anxiety. And once I had the name, I could start understanding it.
I learned that:
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I wasn’t alone. Loads of people my age felt like this, even the ones who seemed confident on the outside.
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My brain wasn’t broken—it was just trying to protect me, sometimes too much.
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There were ways to manage it. Breathing exercises, movement, journaling, even tiny things like naming what I was feeling out loud.
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I didn’t have to power through everything. It was okay to say, “I need a moment.”
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I could ask for help—and the world didn’t fall apart when I did.
What helped most wasn’t any big intervention. It was the little things. A friend texting me, “You okay today?” A quiet room in school I could use when it got too much. A form tutor who noticed when I looked worn out and said, “You don’t have to explain. Just take five.”
It wasn’t all smooth. I had setbacks. Some people didn’t get it. I still had days where I went back into that spiral of thinking I was weak or overreacting. But those days came less often. And when they did, I had tools.
Now, a few years on, I still live with anxiety—but I’m not scared of it. It’s not who I am. It’s just something I experience.
And the most important thing I’ve learned?
It was never just me.