My hands--my sore torn bleeding hands--reveal the anxiety that rushes through my entire body like wildfire, infecting every nerve ending and taking over my brain like a coup. The effects of the anxiety have taken away my childhood, the constant fear that something would happen to my family surrounded me, beginning at the age of four.  The first time someone other than my family noticed this coping was in 2020.  This day became a real turning point in my life. 

I was sitting in the doctor's office waiting for the doctor to come in and figure out where this mysterious cough was coming from; it felt like time was moving slowly. The doctor was examining me and my heart was banging against the walls of my chest trying to escape. I began to pick and pick at my hands; it was the only way I had known to cope. My thumb was bleeding and hurt, but I kept going, continuously pulling and tugging the frayed and torn skin that scattered across my hands. After a few moments of this digging, the doctor noticed, grabbed my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Everything will be alright, and you need to stop picking and harming yourself to rid this anxiety out of your body.” Her voice was calm but filled with great sadness. I remember how she handled the situation. She was calm and her voice filled with sorrow. She walked over to the cabinet and grabbed a bandaid as I stared at the wall of various pamphlets like HIV/aids, different cold medications, and puberty. I was brought back to earth when she instructed me to wash away the blood scattered on my hands and then placed a band-aid over the sore bleeding wound—this small moment in my life completely reworked my brain. I began to become more conscious and aware of when I would start to pick at my hands, and I began to break the habit that had been a part of me from a very young age.

The earliest memory I have of battling my anxiety was in preschool. I was an extremely anxious child, but fire alarms and smoke detectors were a big trigger. The little red sensors with a small, flashing light sent me into a tizzy; my heart began to race, and  I could not think of anything but the worst. The tears started to well in my eyes at the thought of my mom leaving me to go to her workout or drop me off at preschool. The tears would be constant until one of the amazing employees would distract me and comfort me, but some days the anxiety would be too much, and I would have to go home. I had attached anxiety to the idea of being in an unknown place away from my family and being separated due to a fire or, even worse, losing my family. When I was very very little,  around three or four years old, we were at the YMCA. I was holding my mom and dad's hand. I still remember my dad was wearing a gray Minnesota Vikings hoodie and black sweatpants. The fire alarm on the wall next to the Kid Zone stopped me in my steps. I froze. I began to cry, terrified,  I  begged and begged my parents to leave. My dad picked me up and held me because my mom was carrying my little brother. My parents have always been there for me with my anxiety. They would help me overcome this difficulty, and over time, the fear of a smoke detector and alarms began to subside. I no longer stared at the smoke detector at night when I went to bed out of fear that I would not hear it if it went off while I was sleeping.

I would like to say that my anxiety has gotten better. In a way, my anxiety has improved, but the progress is mainly in how I learned to live with it. I no longer let anxiety take away my life. During the months we were at home because of COVID-19, the beginning was difficult for me to cope with, but I used that time to work on myself and began to beat the anxiety and not let it control me. I know many people would not say this, but I am so grateful for the time I had at home. This time it has allowed me to find new ways to cope. I think it was the best thing for me because I don’t know how I would have been able to handle the obstacles that life has thrown at me.