On Anxiety, Empathy, & the Work of Healing

I didn’t know what anxiety felt like until I was almost thirty, which seems impossible now, looking back across the landscape of everything that came after. Its onset arrived not as gradual recognition but as a sudden invasion, a symptom of an abusive relationship that had slowly consumed every available inch of psychological space until there was nowhere left to retreat. I was trapped for years in that suffocating dynamic, and the mental and emotional distress it triggered was unlike anything I had ever experienced: intense in ways that language struggles to capture, relentless in ways that changed the fundamental architecture of how I moved through each day.

I tried to escape into daydreams, into the sanctuary of imagination that had always been available to me, but even that refuge gradually succumbed to her manipulation and control. She deliberately and systematically isolated me from friends and family, severing the connections that might have provided perspective or support, until anxiety became not just a frequent visitor but a constant companion that shaped every decision, every breath, every moment of attempted rest.

After years of erosion, I finally managed to escape and began the slow, uncertain process of rebuilding a life I could recognize as my own. But even in the supposed safety of freedom, I struggled with the lingering presence of anxiety and depression that had taken up residence in my nervous system like unwelcome tenants who refused to acknowledge the lease had ended. Breaking free from the subconscious need for permission, from the guilt that had been carefully cultivated and maintained, proved to be an ongoing challenge that extended far beyond the physical act of leaving.

Anxiety became the single most difficult and persistent adversary I had ever encountered, more challenging than any external circumstance because it operated from within, using my own thoughts and bodily responses as weapons against my attempts to heal.

I moved into a cheap studio apartment that felt simultaneously like a sanctuary and exile and spent what might have been a week—though time moved strangely during those suspended days—cocooned inside its walls, afraid to venture beyond the minimal safety I had managed to establish. The prospect of returning to work filled me with a nervous anticipation that bordered on terror. I was haunted by the possibility that she might appear unannounced and create the kind of public scene I had witnessed and endured countless times before, those moments when private dysfunction exploded into public humiliation.

Eventually, the isolation became unbearable in its own way, and I forced myself to leave the house, riding the bus several blocks to Ikonic Coffee on Lena Street in Santa Fe. The simple act of ordering a coffee and finding a table with my laptop felt simultaneously mundane and monumental. I knew I would have to relearn how to behave around other people, how to occupy shared space without the constant hypervigilance that had become second nature.

Once, conversation had flowed effortlessly from me like water from a natural spring. Words and questions emerged without conscious effort, and I navigated social interactions with the kind of natural ease that I had taken for granted until it disappeared. Now, every potential exchange was filtered through layers of doubt and second-guessing. I understood that I would need to practice simply being present with others, to rebuild basic social muscle that had atrophied during years of isolation and control.

However, I was also angry, furious that precious years of my life had been stolen, that I was returning to the world at almost thirty, feeling like a frightened child who had forgotten how to play well with others. I resented having to start over, wanted desperately to fast-forward through the difficult work of recovery and find myself already standing on the other side of healing, whole and functional and free.

I used to love being around people, genuinely delighted in conversation with strangers, found endless fascination in the art of people-watching, and the small discoveries that emerge from casual human interaction. I believe that people are capable of remarkable beauty and connection. That we can be, when we’re operating from our best selves rather than our wounded places. I wanted desperately to experience that sense of wonder and appreciation again, but I was terrified that the capacity had been permanently damaged.

I sat at a small table in Ikonic Coffee, my entire body rigid with apprehension, afraid to move in ways that might draw attention or suggest vulnerability. Even breathing felt forced and unnatural, as if I had forgotten the basic mechanics of existing in a body that belonged to me. I couldn’t write, couldn’t focus on my laptop screen, couldn’t do anything productive or meaningful. This represented my first attempt at being around people again, and while I had intellectually prepared myself for difficulty, the physical reality of the experience was overwhelming.

I had envisioned managing a casual conversation with whoever happened to be sitting nearby, but that fantasy revealed itself as absurdly ambitious. I should have aimed lower, focused simply on feeling reasonably comfortable in the presence of other humans without feeling the need to perform or engage. My body betrayed the intensity of my internal state. I began shaking with nervous energy, feeling waves of warmth radiating outward from my solar plexus like ripples moving across still water. When I started feeling feverish and lightheaded, I stood abruptly and left the coffee shop with as much dignity as I could manage, which wasn’t much.

For the first half of my life, I had been naturally empathic in ways that felt effortless and valuable, able to read people’s body language, emotions, and unspoken thoughts without conscious effort or strain. In my early twenties, as I began to understand the connection between my own emotional responses and the feelings of those around me, I had actively cultivated and developed this empathic capacity, treating it as a gift that could enhance my relationships and understanding of the world.

But the abusive relationship had systematically distorted this natural ability, twisting empathy into something that resembled anxiety so closely that I couldn’t distinguish between them. What I had once experienced as an intuitive understanding of others’ emotional states now felt like an overwhelming invasion, and I didn’t realize that my ability to read people had been masked by trauma responses that mimicked but weren’t identical to genuine empathic connection.

I mistook anxiety for empathy, trusted and nurtured my anxious responses for years, believing I was working through legitimate emotional and spiritual development rather than feeding a dysfunction that had taken root in the place where authentic intuition used to live.

Anxiety, like its close companion depression, affects both body and mind in ways that create self-reinforcing cycles of distress. The worst aspects of each condition feed off and amplify the other, creating a psychological and physiological feedback loop that becomes increasingly difficult to interrupt. In the body, anxiety manifests as inexplicable and urgent sensations: guilt without clear cause, fear that seems disproportionate to circumstances, worry that spirals beyond reason, and anger that emerges from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously.

The mind, seeking to make sense of these intense physical sensations, begins inventing stories to explain what it’s experiencing. Once consciousness latches onto a fabricated motive or narrative, anxiety compels us to obsess over that constructed reality, treating fictional scenarios as immediate threats requiring constant vigilance and preparation. Because the mind isn’t always certain about the accuracy of its interpretations, the process repeats endlessly with new worries and concerns while the old ones never fully resolve. Instead, they accumulate and stack, creating an ever-growing inventory of potential disasters that demand attention.

Anxiety becomes exhausting and adrenergic, flooding the system with stress hormones that were designed for acute rather than chronic activation.

In terms of bodily experience, anxiety operates as the complete opposite of authentic empathy. When we learn to trust our genuine instincts, we develop the capacity to rely on them as sources of useful information about our environment and relationships. But when we can’t distinguish between legitimate intuitive responses and anxiety-driven reactivity, we inadvertently condition ourselves to trust anxious interpretations as if they were reliable guidance.

When we consistently reaffirm and act upon anxious thoughts, we deepen our psychological dependence on anxiety as a decision-making framework, which creates an increasingly dangerous disconnection from authentic inner wisdom.

After years of attempting to “move on” from the trauma that had initiated this cycle, I began to realize that moving on and actually working through our deepest wounds represent fundamentally different approaches to healing. The distinction between these approaches can be difficult to recognize, especially when we’re desperate for relief and eager to believe we’re making progress. But living unaware of this crucial difference can perpetuate rather than resolve the underlying issues.

Often, when we tell ourselves we’re “moving on,” the emotional triggers buried in our unconscious responses gradually become integrated into our sense of identity. After years of this unconscious incorporation, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish between authentic personality traits and trauma-based reactions. We lose track of where our true nature ends, and our protective adaptations begin.

Understanding this dynamic revealed that we must learn not just to cope with anxiety but to work through it systematically and consciously. It is absolutely possible to overcome both anxiety and depression, but the process requires sustained effort and commitment that many people find daunting. Unwittingly, I avoided the deeper work for a long time. I chose instead to manage symptoms while hoping the underlying causes would merely fade with time.

Eventually, the accumulation of anger, stress, anxiety, and depression made me so consistently miserable, especially during the hours I spent at jobs that felt meaningless and draining, that something fundamental had to change. Not just surface adjustments or minor lifestyle modifications, but everything about how I was approaching the basic questions of how to live.

I had been telling myself that my efforts at work were leading me toward some version of satisfaction and success; however, when I paused long enough to evaluate my assumption, I realized I was deceiving myself. I asked the question that I had been avoiding: “If I could do anything with my life, what would I choose?” Once I allowed myself to acknowledge the answer, I had to confront the follow-up question: “Why am I not doing that?”

Taking a significant step back from the immediate demands of daily survival, I tried to see the larger pattern of my existence. The big picture had been obscured by years of reactive decision-making. On the surface, I was still struggling to balance unmanageable levels of anxiety, stress, and depression. I began to suspect that these symptoms were covering something deeper and more essential.

The only way to see beneath these protective layers was to commit to sustained exploration of my interior landscape. The key that unlocked this process turned out to be meditation. And not as escape or relaxation, but as a method for developing the capacity to observe my own mental and emotional processes with increasing clarity and compassion.

As I began to rediscover aspects of myself that had been buried beneath years of accumulated distress, I started to uncover my authentic passions: the activities, ideas, and ways of being that genuinely encouraged and inspired me, that connected me to sources of natural happiness I had forgotten existed. I understood that I needed to systematically remove the surface layers of anxiety and depression that were obscuring my access to joy and creative energy.

I wanted to see clearly again, to experience the kind of natural enthusiasm that makes life feel worth living rather than something to be endured. While working to bring my deepest passions into active expression, I also had to develop the skill of acknowledging anxiety and depression as they arose, catching these states in real-time so that new episodes wouldn’t reinforce and strengthen the existing patterns.

People tend to find comfort in familiar patterns, even when those patterns cause suffering, because the known quantity of misery often feels safer than the uncertainty that comes with genuine change. We’re not a particularly disciplined species when it comes to delayed gratification. Immediate relief feels more important than long-term transformation, so we often choose to remain in familiar discomfort rather than apply sustained effort and discipline for the relatively short time required to build healthier habits and allow our authentic passions to guide our choices.

My efforts over recent years have taught me, with absolute certainty, that the first step in addressing anxiety and depression involves disciplining ourselves to acknowledge these states as they arise, at the moment they begin to affect us. This practice proves easier with anxiety than with depression—anxiety tends to announce itself more dramatically—but anxiety also presents in more varied and subtle ways, which means it takes considerable time and sustained attention to catch every instance.

You won’t succeed in acknowledging every episode, especially in the beginning; however, the crucial element is establishing and maintaining the habit of conscious recognition, building the mental muscle that allows you to step outside the experience and observe it with some degree of objectivity.

Eventually, if you persist with this practice, you’ll develop the capacity to notice anxiety early enough in its development to introduce alternative responses. I discovered that replacing anxiety with excitement represents the most accessible alternative—since these two emotional states share surprisingly similar physiological signatures: the same elevated heart rate, the same heightened alertness, and the same sense of energetic activation.

The transformation from anxiety to excitement feels almost impossible at first, like trying to convince yourself that fear and anticipation are the same thing. Then it becomes easier as you become accustomed to the process. Then it becomes tedious, requiring conscious effort even when you’d rather react automatically. But this kind of persistent self-application represents the only reliable method for genuinely resolving anxiety rather than simply managing its symptoms.

Once the process of conscious emotional choice becomes habitual, it begins to guide you toward greater psychological freedom, without requiring constant vigilance and effort.

When I first wrote this essay, I had just begun applying myself seriously to working through the traumas, anxieties, and depression that had been defining my experience for years. Looking back at who I had been even twelve months earlier, I couldn’t recognize that previous version of myself. The transformation felt so complete that it seemed like I was looking at a stranger who happened to share my history.

Almost a year has passed since then, and my relationship with anxiety has been so thoroughly transformed that it rarely crosses my mind. I hadn’t thought about it for months until this essay came up for revision, which itself feels like a small miracle. I understand intimately how difficult anxiety can be to manage daily, how it can make even simple decisions feel overwhelming and impossible.

We gradually learn to rely on our anxieties and depression as familiar companions, and the prospect of change—even positive change—can feel uncomfortable and frightening because it represents movement into unknown psychological territory. The most reliable and accessible method for beginning to work with anxiety involves acknowledging it verbally in the moment it arises: “I’m feeling anxious right now.”

This simple practice of naming creates just enough psychological distance to prevent complete identification with the anxious state, allowing space for curiosity about what’s actually happening rather than automatic reactivity to whatever story anxiety is telling.

During my meditation practice, I made a crucial discovery: the part of my consciousness that could observe and acknowledge my anxiety was never itself anxious. This recognition allowed me to understand anxiety as a defensive mechanism: terrible in its effects but still serving some perceived protective function. Through sustained meditation, I began to see anxiety from multiple perspectives rather than experiencing it as the totality of my reality.

This shift in viewpoint helped me survey and navigate a path through anxious episodes rather than being completely overwhelmed by them. My journey through anxiety and depression has become a transformative process of self-discovery and gradual healing. Though I’m cautious about describing it as complete or permanent, these conditions can be remarkably persistent and recursive.

Learning to confront fears directly rather than avoiding them, embracing vulnerability as a source of strength rather than weakness, and gradually re-cultivating empathy and self-awareness as conscious practices rather than automatic responses, I’ve developed greater resilience and emotional stability than I possessed before the crisis that initiated this whole process.

I’ve learned that healing operates more as an ongoing practice than a destination to be reached, and that every step forward—no matter how small—represents genuine success worth acknowledging and celebrating. I hope that sharing this experience might inspire others to face their own struggles with courage and sustained effort, and to know that they’re not alone in the complex, often non-linear process of recovering from trauma and rebuilding a life that feels authentic and sustainable.

The geography of recovery is vast and varied, and everyone’s path through it looks different, but the territory can be navigated with patience, proper guidance, and the willingness to keep moving forward even when progress feels imperceptible.