Member-only story
I Thought I Was Anxious…and it Turns Out the World Was Loud
When I lived in Caracas, people said I was quiet.
Not shy. Just quiet. I was the girl who washed her hands too often and hesitated at crosswalks.
The girl who picked her seat in the classroom like it was a chess move. No one called it anxiety. There were no diagnoses, no prescriptions. It was just how I was…careful, thoughtful, sometimes too tired to speak.
Then I moved to the United States. And suddenly, the way I existed had a name.
Anxiety. Panic disorder. Depression. Borderline.
I did not know what half of them meant, but they came anyway, in folders and whispers and insurance codes. I was not born with labels. I collected them like worn coins…slowly, and with shame.
At first, I thought it was me. My accent. My inability to order coffee without stuttering. The way I avoided eye contact when strangers looked too long. I thought it was some failure of character.
Some cultural flaw I brought with me across the border.
Then I learned about the youth mental health crisis. One in five Americans lives with a mental health condition. That number grew during the pandemic…
