Anxious Thoughts

I was never consciously anxious—at least, I didn’t think I was. That’s not to say I haven’t been anxious throughout my life. In fact, I believe the gray hair I’ve had since I was 18 is largely a result of the stress and anxiety I’ve carried. But for most of my life, I wasn’t aware of it. It was just there, a silent undercurrent.

It’s only recently that I’ve started to recognize the feeling. A few years ago, my thyroid began to malfunction, and since then, stress and anxiety have become physical. They suffocate me. My unstable emotions destabilize my thyroid, and it feels like it swells in my throat, stealing my breath and making me gag.

Lately, I’ve been feeling anxious because I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. At 35, I’m apparently in my “midlife” phase, yet I have no idea who I am. I don’t know if I’m good at anything—and if I had to guess, I’d say no. I haven’t found purpose, love, success, or even joy. And so, I’m anxious.

All of this insecurity stems from a lack of self-worth. When I look in the mirror, I see someone who has nothing to offer. I see someone who isn’t beautiful enough, smart enough, talented enough—yet somehow has the audacity to want the best life has to offer.

When I was young, I dreamed big. I had all kinds of unrealistic fantasies, from meeting my celebrity crush and having them fall in love with me, to having superpowers and being able to fly. Once, I shared a more grounded dream with my father: I told him I wanted to live in New York someday. His response crushed me. He said I should stop having unrealistic dreams because I’d only be disappointed when they didn’t come true. “One has to be realistic,” he said.

That dream wasn’t impossible, but my father thought it was too big. To me, dreams were meant to be big—dream big or go home. I never asked him what he thought my limits should be, but his words became another weight in the already overstuffed room of my self-doubt.

How high am I allowed to dream for myself? What are my limits? I’ve done everything I was “supposed” to do—I went to school, earned a bachelor’s and master’s degree, became independent, and learned to take care of myself. I’m not afraid to walk alone at night or travel the world. But maybe none of that matters.

Maybe my worth is determined by factors I don’t understand, factors others see but I don’t. To them, I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough for my dreams.

Now, those dreams have evaporated. Realistic or not, for the past five years, I haven’t been able to picture myself anywhere—not in the distant future, not even tomorrow. I’ve been so lost that I can’t even piece myself together in my mind.

How can I dream when I feel like I’m worth nothing? And with that thought, I’m suffocating.