From panic to peace: A lifelong dance with Anxiety

When I was young, I had so much fear. It would be a daily struggle for my mum to get me to school. We’d get a taxi some days, and she’d hold my hand the whole way there, I remember gripping it sooo tight.

We’d arrive at school, and it would always be the same routine, I mean every single day. I would cry, and the teachers would carry me inside. Honestly, I know it broke Mum’s heart.

This continued daily from the age of 5 to the age of 8, when I went to middle school and realised crying wasn’t going to get me sent back home, to my safe space. But being poorly? That might. So I started faking being ill. My attendance record must’ve been shocking.

In the 80s, I don’t think Mum even knew about homeschooling. But even if she had, she needed to work, I couldn’t have gone with her and there was nobody to have me. So she got a job at my school as a dinner lady and helped out with swimming lessons. If she could be near me, she was.

At middle school, I began to find my way a bit better. I had a core group of friends and looked forward to seeing them each day. But some days, I would still get extremely nervous about going, or doing anything outside of my comfort zone. That’s when the vomiting started.

I would get so anxious my stomach would take the hit, and I’d throw up. This was a regular thing, and it carried on into my late 20s. I would get myself so worked up about doing something, I would be physically sick. Meeting new people? Nope. In fact, it wasn’t just new people, it was anyone outside my tight circle. I would hide behind my dad’s legs and not speak a word.

It would take a good hour to even speak when I saw my Nan, who lived a couple of hours away. But those I saw all the time, like my Nanny Charlotte (Nanny Round the Corner), I was absolutely fine with. I could be myself.

I don’t know why I felt this way about being away from my safe space, but two of my earliest memories are of being treated badly by adults, those who should have been safe spaces for me.

First, I remember Mum dropping me off at a playgroup and leaving. I was extremely upset and crying, and then I remember being shut in a dark cupboard. I have the memory of being put in there to shut me up... but I can’t say for sure if it’s accurate or not. I just remember it was a large cupboard where tables and chairs were stored, and I felt even more scared, like something was in there with me.

I was afraid of the dark for years after that and slept with the light on until my 20s.

I also remember nursery, I didn’t go there for long. I wet myself once and was shouted at by a nursery assistant. I was made to clean it up with a huge bucket and a mop that towered over me. Those are my first memories.

Fast forward to adult life: jobs. Same routine. Being sick before interviews. Before the first day. First week. First month. First year. I never showed my colleagues who I truly was unless I fully trusted them. And even then, it would take months to come out of my shell.

I would rather take my lunch into the toilets than be in a canteen of people. I’d hide myself.

In my early 20s, I started to gain some confidence. I had a good group of friends, and a job I enjoyed, with people I liked and could be myself around. I’d pulled myself out of the depression I’d had since 19 after an abortion that sent me spiralling (that’s another post). I was finding myself again, and it felt great.

Then step in... a guy.

A guy who would drag me straight back down, deeper than I ever thought I could go, into anxiety and depression.

He was emotionally and mentally abusive. And I stayed in that relationship for around 4 years.

I lost myself completely.

And I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave him because I didn’t know who I was without him.

And honestly? In that relationship, I scared myself more than he ever scared me.

I remember one day, I took a pair of sharp scissors to my wrist and pushed down. But the stop moment came when I thought of my mum, and all those times she held my hand as a kid, knowing what was coming, and never giving up on me.

I remembered the heartache of 11-year-old me, seeing someone I loved hooked up to life support, wires everywhere. Not knowing if he’d make it, because he tried to take his life. I promised my 11-year-old self I would never do that.

And in that moment, she came back to me, and held my hand. That 11-year-old me, stood by my side.

The real wake-up moment to leave came in what felt like divine intervention. He broke his ankle playing football and called me to visit him at the hospital.

I got in the car... and threw up over myself and the steering wheel.

My body came back to remind me.

He is not your safe space. Back away. NOW.

And I listened. I got out of the car. And I stepped away. That was the first step back to myself.

After that, I moved to Lincolnshire with my parents.

I still had the worry. I still had the anxiety. That didn’t disappear overnight. I'd lost myself in that relationship and had to find me again.

I still wasn’t fully myself around people at work.

Until I began to truly know myself, through my shamanic work.

Step in: My Shamanic community.

I sat in circle with them a good few years. I learned the medicine wheel, spoke my truth with the talking stick, and did things I never thought I would: firewalks, glass walks, arrow breaks, board breaks, rebar bend with my throat.

I even dug my own grave and slept in it overnight. Possibly one of the most profound experiences of my life. ifelt so held by Mother Earth.

So where do I finish this?

Just to say:

I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to be truly terrified by the hold anxiety has over us. I know the depths of depression. And I know it can get easier.

Though I still feel it, in the tightness of my muscles, in my stomach, I know that’s past anxiety. My body just remembers.

Now, I have the most amazing husband, who would do anything for me. He loves and adores me, as I do him. He knows my past, and he’s lived the same pain. He’s come home to himself too.

We have the most incredible daughter, she’s full of energy and adores school.

She’s never once cried at the school gates...Actually, she did. When she left her teacher of two years in Year 3. So yes, she struggles with change and being out of her comfort zone.

And she gets anxious too. I see it.

She doesn't really like clubs outside of school, she finds it really hard, even when I’m just in the waiting room. Three times in one hour, she came out of a dance class crying. But three times, she chose to go back in. She does better than I did. She’s braver than she knows. I won’t push her though.

She does her swimming lessons, she adores them, and the after-school clubs at school. She’s thriving.

And yes, I still worry. I worry how she’ll be when secondary school comes. Her school now has 70 students. The smallest secondary school has 500.

That’s a huge leap. But that’s for future us, as a family, to figure out.

If any part of this story resonated with you, whether it’s your own experience with anxiety, parenting a child with a similar story, or finding your way back to yourself, I’d truly love to hear from you. You’re so welcome to share your thoughts in the comments below.

This space is here for honesty, for connection, and for being real, no need to have it all figured out. Just come as you are.

With love, Jo xx