Serendipity

My anxiety has shaped so much of who I am today. It’s funny how, when you take the time to analyze it, you start looking back at who you were before it ever became part of your life.

For me, I was a sociable kid with no fears of stepping up to people and sparking a conversation. I thrived on fun and adventure, always choosing excitement over boredom. That’s how I ended up in the entertainment scene—it felt natural. To succeed in that world, you needed courage, charisma, and the ability to move through fear like it wasn’t even there. I had all of that, and I was good at it.

But everything changed at 21. My career came crashing down. I lost the company I’d built since I was 16—a company that had become my identity. When I lost it, I lost myself. The confidence, the courage, the boldness that defined me seemed to vanish overnight. I became a recluse, terrified of everything under the sun. I left the entertainment scene and stepped into the business world, trying to rebuild my life from behind the scenes.

It was during this time that I started to notice anxiety creeping into my life. At first, it was subtle—an inability to stay in crowded places for long, a sense of dread in high-traffic areas. Over time, it grew. I developed defense mechanisms to shield myself from the things that once made me strong. My relationships became limited to texts because I was afraid of seeing people in person. Even now, I’d rather text than make a phone call or meet someone face-to-face. My self-esteem was shattered. I felt unworthy and trapped in a cycle of projecting my self-criticism onto others, believing they must feel the same way about me.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve slowly started to unravel the roots of my anxiety. What I’ve learned is that anxiety isn’t just a monster waiting to ruin your life. It’s more like a complicated relationship. Left unchecked, it can take over, steering you toward inevitable doom while you rationalize staying in its grip. But when you start to understand why it exists, you can see how it tries to protect you.

Anxiety first emerged for me as a response to trauma. Two life-altering car accidents left their mark on me. Those moments, where my life felt at the mercy of unseen forces, are burned into my mind. To this day, I can’t drive on the highway without sweaty palms and a wave of paranoia. But I don’t let it stop me. If I have to drive, I will. Anxiety has made me hyper-aware of my surroundings when I’m behind the wheel. My reaction time is faster, and I’m more cautious than ever. In this way, anxiety has shown me that it isn’t all bad—it’s a defense mechanism meant to keep me alert and alive.

Anxiety exists to help us. It’s a signal, a mechanism born out of past pain or trauma, designed to keep us safe. The problem comes when we let it take control. For me, anxiety has taught me that in certain situations, I can acknowledge its presence without letting it drive the ship. If I have some control over a situation, I’ll take the reins and let anxiety sit in the backseat, ready if I need it but no longer calling the shots.

After 10 years of living with and studying my anxiety, I’ve come to realize that it’s often a trauma response. Whether it’s the fear of losing my company, moments from childhood, or the car accidents that scarred me, anxiety has roots in deep emotional wounds. It’s there to protect me from breaking mentally under the weight of it all. But while anxiety has a role, I’ve learned that I still have control over my mind and body. And control is what allows me to navigate life without being held hostage by fear.

People often demonize anxiety, and I understand why. It’s exhausting, overwhelming, and relentless. But if you take the time to explore where it comes from and what it’s trying to do, you may find that anxiety isn’t your enemy. With the right people by your side to help guide you its a step in the right direction. It’s a part of you that’s trying, in its own imperfect way, to help you. And in that realization, there’s a small but significant path back to control—a path back to yourself.