The True Story of My Childhood Anxiety + The Missing Key on Your Path to Healing


Hello my dear readers.


Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being here.


I can’t believe I am almost officially a year and a half into blogging! Looking back, the blog has had endless iterations of designs, logos, colors, themes, and even web platforms. The content has shape shifted and taken on numerous forms, from personal narratives to recipes, quick tips, and full blown soul-unleashings.


I used to feel some shame and inadequacy surrounding the many different faces of my content, but now I choose to interpret it as a visual reflection of the evolutions we’re all constantly undergoing. There’s no endpoint to our creativity or the discovery of our truth. There’s no finish line. We move the needle closer to our authenticity a little bit at a time, and as we go, our external worlds reveal and manifest that.


Today’s post is all about healing.

It's a reminder that we are our very own healers. It’s a loving nudge to stop searching desperately for someone to fix you and start looking at what’s been there all along: Your self. Your wise heart. Your resilient body. Your powerful mind. Your incandescent soul.


I had to be shaken back awake to my own incandescent soul a few months ago. And who better to do that shaking for me than my mom?


Back in December, she and I had a pivotal conversation. She perceived that I was turning a blind eye to my own magnificent power, and compassionately (but also just plain passionately – she is a Leo, haha) reminded me where the heck I come from.


We sat on her pink living room couches as she gently guided me to this fact: I was forgetting my past and the depths of pain that lie within it. I downplayed the fact that I underwent levels of suffering that most children simply didn’t, and they made me who I am today.*


I'll paint the picture for you.


Around the age of 5, I was diagnosed with anxiety and panic disorder.


While other members of my elementary school class were learning what sparked their creative juices and cultivating friendships, I was spending my mornings screaming on the kitchen floor, detoxing from the adult doses of anti-anxiety meds I had been irresponsibly prescribed. I was unable to pick myself up to walk into school because I was so terrified of being anywhere but home. I felt so unsafe in my body and in this world.


As a child, I described the intense discomfort that seemed to inherently reside in my body as my "mad, sad spot."


My childhood anxiety showed up in the form of raging panic attacks and mood instability. My symptoms did not respond well to traditional modalities of healing like prescription drugs and basic anxiety-relieving exercises. In some cases, they made them worse, rendering me entirely unable to function.


So, with the guidance of my mom and the incredible team of support around me, we turned to spirituality and holistic healing. We tried Reiki, homeopathy, crystals, meditation, EFT tapping, breathwork, yoga, healthy eating, aromatherapy, supplements (I took 18-20 a day as a kid), and countless other holistic therapies.


In the thick of my suffering, spiritual practices and holistic healing were not just a fun way to keep myself happy and healthy, but a legitimate necessity. A survival mechanism. A lifeline when there seemed truly to be no hope.


Around the age of 10, my healing journey reached an apex. My homeopathic medication created an intense disturbance within me as it dug down closer and closer to the roots of my dis-ease. After a months-long hurricane of panic attack after panic attack and what my mom and I would likely describe as some of the darkest moments of our lives, the calm came.


I started to heal. Really heal. This wasn't a band-aid fix. This was an exorcism. The darkness was being transcended. The “mad, sad spot” disappeared.


I was free.

Back on the pink couches, my mom reminded me of this journey we had been on together, and that it was not an experience to be overlooked. It shaped me more than anything else has.


I realized that I’ve been in such a rush to do more, accomplish this and achieve that, that I cut myself off from these powerful roots. I had forgotten how badass it is that I healed from one of the greatest challenges of my lifetime at such a tender, formative age.


It also hit me that I had been tripping over myself to get my hands on the next cure-all product or course offered by the spirituality and wellness community. I had been falling off my center whenever somebody promised a healing experience or remedy because I forgot how much I already knew.


In reality, I internalized many of those lessons years ago when I had no other option. I learned them as a second language. I wrote them into the song of my soul. They taught me how to understand myself when nothing on this earth or in this body made sense.


I'm not saying that I no longer need support on my spiritual journey. We all do. That's why we're together in this space right now. What I am saying is that it's time to stop seeking support solely from external sources.


It's time to start following the compass within.


Seeking answers externally is me playing small. It's a fear story, perpetuated by the false belief that I'm not good enough all on my own, with nothing and nobody from the outside bolstering me.


Buying into this ego narrative is a massive disservice because it stops me from shining my light to the fullest. It convinces me that my story isn't enough, and therefore isn't worth being shared.


My ego doesn't want me to remember my internal power. It tries to protect me from it because - wooooo girl - when I’m awake to it, I am a force. I am ablaze with love for vulnerably sharing my experiences, communing with others who have struggled similarly, and reminding them that healing doesn’t happen externally.


Let me say that again.