What healing actually looks like after anxiety, depression, and survival.
I’m going to lay all the cards on the table and tell the internet how bad things used to be for me with depression and anxiety, and then I’m going to compare that to how things are now.
I want to be clear from the start: I’m not sharing this because I think I’m special or impressive, nor do I intend to romanticize mental illness struggles. This isn’t about me at all.
This is about hope.
Not the vague kind of hope. Not the “it gets better” kind that floats by without proof.
This is about showing you tangible evidence that healing is possible, if you’re willing to work for it.
What Survival Looked Like
When my anxiety was at its worst, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without blasting music through my headphones. Even then, I needed my cousin to drive in from out of town just to go with me.
Crowds made me shake. Social events made me silent.
I was afraid of being perceived at all. Anyone, no matter how well I knew them, felt like a game of russian roulette. If someone was disappointed in me, my body reacted as though I was being chased by a lion. (Recovering people-pleaser here. Can you tell?)
Disappointment was interpreted as a threat. Judgment felt like being hunted. Embarrassment felt like I’d proven myself to be no more than prey.
I needed backup for almost everything. Panic attacks were always close. When I had to do “adulting” things alone, my headphones stayed on 24/7; music was the only thing that kept my nervous system from completely unravelling.
I had relentless nightmares and was afraid of the dark well into my twenties. If I was alone, I slept with a lamp on. I could only turn it off when friends stayed over and shared my bed.
At the time, I was spiritual, but I didn’t know God yet. I believed He hated me. Being spiritually aware while living with anxiety is its own special kind of hell. How do you explain to someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts that you’re terrified of the demonic, that your nightmares feel like spiritual attacks, that sleep itself feels unsafe?
At the same time, I was deeply depressed.
I could spend days in bed, barely moving. Watching the sun rise, then set, just scrolling videos on my phone. Sometimes I’d drag myself out of bed, only to collapse onto the living room floor and stare at the ceiling for hours until night came again.
I had no energy. Getting out of bed required every ounce of strength I had, and most days, I didn’t have enough.
When Existing Was the Goal
Eventually, I lost my apartment and moved into my grandparents’ basement.
I had to set an alarm each evening to remind myself to go upstairs and spend time with my grandma; otherwise, I wouldn’t leave my room at all. That was usually the only time I ate.
I’d come up, grab supper, watch a movie with her, then go back downstairs. Sleep. Games. Barely existing. Wear a mask like I was alive for maybe two hours. Return to sleep. Games… Barely existing.
Day after day.
I almost took my life during that season.
That Christmas, a long-buried trauma finally came to light within my family. Their reaction wasn’t what I needed. I was already struggling to find reasons to stay alive, and that moment made me feel completely alone.
A friend accidentally saved my life that night by messaging me, upset that I hadn’t talked to him in a few days. He didn’t find out he’d stopped something so dark until months down the road.
I’m telling you this not to romanticize how bad things were, but because the next part matters a lot more.
What Healing Actually Looks Like
I’m not cured. I’m not fixed.
I still carry coping tools in my little proverbial toolbelt. I still have to be self-aware and careful. But I am better than I was.
I do things alone now.
I grocery shop. I travel. I go on adventures with my son. Crowds still make me nervous, but the nerves don’t run away with me anymore. I can talk to strangers. I even make friends sometimes, out of the blue. I used to envy people who could do that.
For someone who once rationed her energy just to make coffee, I now spend my days baking. I cook real suppers almost every night, something I consider a genuine accomplishment.
I can keep my house clean without calling in backup. Sometimes I do my nails or put on makeup simply because I want to feel good, not because I have to perform for anyone.
I’m in love. I feel loved. I’m cherished by my family.
I don’t just exist anymore.
When dark episodes come, I fight to climb back out.
I notice the birds now. I give personalities to the trees outside my window. I watch the sun rise and set, and I paint them with my son.
I sing and dance in my kitchen as I cook, and I’m not afraid of the perception of someone’s potential scorn.
Why I’m Telling You This
“It gets better” doesn’t mean much on its own. We’ve talked about this before.
But when the person saying it has been there, really there, and they come back with proof, then it becomes something else entirely.
This is the evidence.
Healing doesn’t erase the past. It builds your strength from the rubble of your pain. And if you’re still in the middle of your own survival season, I want you to know this:
Hope isn’t naive.
Hope is earned.
Hope is fought for.
And it is possible to get better.
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