I want to tell you something that took me a long time to understand: recovery did not begin with a dramatic moment. It began with fear—and with the decision to walk into a room anyway.
For as long as I can remember, I lived with social anxiety. It started when I was about three years old. To people looking in, I may have seemed shy. But inside, it was much heavier than shyness. I was afraid of being separated from my mother. I was afraid of making mistakes. I was afraid that if I tried something new and failed, it would prove what anxiety had been whispering to me all along: You are not good enough.
I became very good at looking fine. I did well in school. I worked. I showed up. But after ordinary social situations, I needed hours alone to recover. On the outside, I was functioning. On the inside, I was exhausted and afraid.
At 16, I started therapy. I took a personality assessment, and my therapist considered whether I needed hospitalization. But because I was still going to school and working, we continued with outpatient treatment instead. I kept functioning—but I was still carrying so much pain.
