The last time was in the fall. The sun was peaking out over the treeline, fighting to break through the haze that swarmed the humid Georgia air. I was sitting on the dock, my parents’ house behind me, the lake below me, and I could not stop crying. Something in me was shriveling, minute by minute. I’d draw in a long breath, and my lungs would shrink beneath my chest, forcing out the air I’d just worked so hard to gather. And then it would happen all over again.
There was music playing, and light shining, birds chirping, and in every physical sense of the word, I was safe. But it didn’t feel that way.
What everyone seems to miss about anxiety is that is has almost nothing to do with what surrounds you. It has everything to do with what’s within you—if your mind is playing host to a breeding ground of “what-if” horrors and truly terrifying possibilities. And you can open all the gates you can think of, and tears will come out, but the fear will stay cozy inside.
I don’t mean to bore you with details about the last time, because this was not the last time. Sure, some things seem the same: a thickness in the air, gauzy clouds wrapped around the dawning sky, a pier, some waves, and a girl, crying.
The last time, I had just left school. I had just watched what I thought to be my world slip through my fingers, and I was too busy controlling my breathing to try to cling on. The last time, I was a complete and utter wreck. I was not eating, I was not succeeding, and I most definitely was not thriving.
Fast forward to this weekend. I was sitting on a dock just north of Charleston, South Carolina. I had my bible open, and the first specks of golden hour were settling on my skin. I looked up and took inventory. Same humid air, same mosquitos nipping at my skin, same beautiful picture of God’s glory painted on the sky. And I started crying. But this time, I couldn’t stop smiling.
I felt wonderfully flooded with all the ways my life does not look like it did the last time. I’m not crippled by anxiety. I’m not overwhelmed by the days or months or years to come. And I’m not bullying myself into thinking I need to have control of it all.
In the months after I took a break from school, I did a lot of praying. I did a lot of bargaining with God about why this was happening and why it felt so awful. But through that process, I heard Him tell me, “I have you. You are mine. You know you can trust Me. So why don’t you?”
There is such a stark difference between me, now, with my identity in Christ, and the me that was trying to figure it all out. I didn’t undergo any kind of overnight transformation. Nobody opened the curtain to reveal the “new me.” I gave my life to Christ, little by little. I challenged myself to trust the Lord more and more. And in that I found life. I found vibrant sunrises that aren’t clouded by weary eyes. I found refuge in prayer and excitement in a future that’s entirely His. And I found joy in knowing that He meets me in these quiet moments of reflection. I learned to look forward to more mornings with Him, and I knew this weekend was most definitely not the last time.
