Chronic Anxiety
Yesterday, I was waiting for my 4-year-old at his karate class. Through the big glass window, I could see a group of cute kids in their cute uniforms, kicking and punching. I was sitting in a comfortable chair, chatting with another karate mom.
This idyllic scene was happening while, at the same time, my anxiety was through the roof.
My head was spinning—thinking about the past, planning the future. My breathing was shallow, my heart was racing, and I could barely follow what the woman next to me was saying because my mind was busy solving a million unrelated problems while automatically nodding to her words.
Last month, I had a drastically different experience.
All night, I sat in a chair in the ER, next to my other child, waiting for doctors to perform tests and give us a diagnosis. It was one of the scariest nights of my life—uncertainty was through the roof, and fear could have been even higher. Yet, I was calm and present.
My head wasn’t spinning, trying to find answers. My breathing was steady and strong. My focus was sharp, and my attention never drifted from what the doctors or my child were saying or doing.
My anxiety wasn’t there.
Before I continue, the diagnosis came quickly, and it was the best possible outcome for the situation. It was a great relief.
I share these personal experiences to show that anxiety is not just fear of the unknown or expecting the worst.
It is, more than anything, the feeling of losing to the world’s demands.
And the craziest part? The demands don’t even matter.
What matters is that you feel losing.
The world always wants something from you.
And you try to keep up with all of it.
“If you feel (consciously or unconsciously) like you’re losing the battle, anxiety shows up.”
For that to happen, three things must be true:
You “know” exactly how things should be (the perfect scenario in your head).
You must really care about winning (because the opposite of your perfect scenario is too horrible to imagine).
You want to control the future and make it fit your expectations.
Yet, when I was in the hospital with my child, the noise of anxiety disappeared.
At that moment, I stopped caring about anything else—nothing besides my child’s health mattered.
It was a humbling experience. I knew I had no control over the diagnosis.
I had no time or resources to play out different scenarios in my head or worry about various outcomes. I had more important things to do.
Things I could control.
I did whatever my child needed to feel better and listened to the doctors.
My priority was clear. I didn’t hesitate, second-guess, panic, hide from reality, or catastrophize.
I had to be all in.
I was mindful.
But I was also in combatant mode, throwing all my resources into one battle. I had no idea how things would turn out.
I was in the middle of the unknown.
Since I’m a psychologist, I knew that while combatant mode killed my anxiety, it wasn’t sustainable. No one can stay in a state of extreme alertness for too long without proper training. Once it became clear that we weren’t facing the worst-case scenario, I had a breakdown.
So, how did this experience help me understand my anxiety?
Yesterday, when I noticed I was in my usual monkey-brain mode, I just stopped.
I recognized my autopilot of worries—and stopped.
The memory of being anxiety-free on those terrifying days suddenly stood out against the mindless worry on a perfectly beautiful day.
It was stupid.
So, I just stopped.
I realized I could pay attention to the moment and the place I was in.
I did what was in my control.
I saw my son kicking the board. I noticed his sensei encouraging him. I looked at the lady next to me and heard how soft her voice was.
It felt like the storm had passed, and I could finally look around and see where I was.
Chronic anxiety has many roots. My extreme vigilance is my habitual state. Even in safe environments, people who have learned to watch their backs can’t easily let their guards down.
If your anxiety is built on years of experience, it may not be easy to get rid of it instantly.
But if you pay attention, you may notice things—and then change them.
I learned something about myself:
My anxiety is a habit—and can be dealt with like any bad habit.
I don’t need a catastrophe to be mindful.
I do not know what the future brings.
Worrying about the future robs me of the present.
Anxiety gets quieter when I actively pay attention to what’s in front of me.
