It has been something like twenty days since my last update, and for the first time in quite a while, I feel like I have something genuinely different to write.
I’m not better. I wouldn’t even say I’m well. There are still difficult days, difficult mornings, and moments where anxiety and grief make themselves known. But I think something important has changed.
For the first time, I am starting to see crumbs of evidence suggesting that recovery might actually be possible.
When I wrote my last post, my world had become incredibly small. Anxiety had taken over almost everything. Work felt impossible. Opening emails or answering the phone could trigger overwhelming panic. Even leaving the flat often felt like climbing a mountain. My mind knew these things shouldn’t feel so frightening, but my body had long since stopped listening to reason.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve started private therapy. I had to give up waiting on an NHS referral; after two attempts over months, I never heard back from the local service. My new therapist is understanding, listens, and actively wants to help me; it has already been unlike anything I’ve experienced in a long time.
Rather than trying to persuade me that my thoughts are irrational, we’re exploring why my brain and body react the way they do in the first place. We’ve spent time talking about grief, trauma, people-pleasing, hypervigilance and what it means to spend years surviving rather than truly living.
I think I’ve talked about this before. One of the more unexpected things we’ve done is give names to some of the different parts of me. Not because I hear voices, but because it reflects how different parts of my mind seem to have taken on different roles over the years. There’s the anxious part that constantly predicts catastrophe, the part carrying old wounds that believes danger is always just around the corner, and the harsh inner prosecutor who never misses an opportunity to tell me I’ve failed. Alongside them, though, we’re also discovering quieter parts of me that can simply observe what’s happening or offer compassion instead of criticism.
It probably sounds a little unusual written down. Maybe it’s just me, but I find it fascinating. But, oddly, it’s helping and allows me to communicate better with my therapist and understand who is shouting the loudest when I’m feeling something complex. Instead of assuming every fearful thought is reality, I’m slowly learning to ask, “Who’s telling me this?” That’s a very different question.
Of course, therapy isn’t just about interesting conversations. It’s hard work.
Every session leaves me emotionally exhausted. More than once I have finished a session, climbed into bed and slept for a bit because my brain simply couldn’t process any more. But despite how draining it is, it also feels different. For the first time, in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m just learning ways to cope with my anxiety. I feel like I’m beginning to understand it. This is something that NHS CBT therapy can’t do; it makes you change how you think/react to things, rather than understand and work through the underlying issue.
One of the biggest realisations so far is that I don’t actually want therapy to change who I am.
I like being curious. I like the way my imagination works. I even like the strange ways my brain makes connections between seemingly unrelated ideas. What I don’t want is to live with a nervous system that assumes every uncertainty is a threat. I don’t want to become someone different. I want to become more myself.
That understanding was put to the test sooner than I expected.
One of the biggest hurdles over the last few weeks was a phone call from work.
Reading that back, it sounds ridiculous. A few years ago I’d probably have thought the same. But anxiety has a remarkable ability to convince you that ordinary things are life-threatening. When HR tried to contact me, my body reacted as though disaster was inevitable. The missed call, the voicemail notification, the email sent my heart racing. I felt sick. I couldn’t think clearly. My body was utterly convinced I was in danger; my primal brain wanted to run as far and as fast as I could. It was almost unbearable anxiety.
Logically, I knew there was no reason to think that. My nervous system disagreed, loudly, strongly, physically, and deeply.
There was a point where avoiding the call felt like the only thing keeping me safe. Anxiety is very persuasive like that. It always promises that if you just avoid something for one more day, the fear will settle.
Instead, with encouragement from my therapist, I decided to do the opposite. I made the call.
It is difficult to describe just how overwhelming the anxiety was beforehand. In many ways, making that phone call felt harder than almost anything else I’ve done this year. My body screamed at me not to do it.
But I did it anyway. Then something happened that my anxious brain hadn’t even considered, and despite a few unanswered calls, the conversation was kind.
There was no anger. No accusations. No threats. They simply wanted to know how I was doing, make sure they had the paperwork they needed, and check in with me. Afterwards I sent over the missing fit note, thanked my HR contact for her support, and we arranged to speak again the following week.
Objectively, it was an entirely ordinary conversation.
To me, it felt extraordinary.
Not because it solved everything, but because it challenged something much deeper. My anxiety had predicted catastrophe with absolute certainty. Reality quietly proved it wrong. The fear was real. Thankfully, the danger wasn’t.
One phone call doesn’t undo years of anxiety, grief or trauma. But it has become one of the first pieces of real evidence that my nervous system isn’t always an accurate guide to what’s actually happening around me. That feels incredibly important.
Around the same time, my GP also adjusted my medication. Whether that’s contributing to the changes I’m beginning to notice, or whether it’s therapy, or simply time, I honestly don’t know. Recovery is rarely one thing. More often, it’s lots of small things working together.
Perhaps the most encouraging change has been one I almost missed.
For months, evenings have been the hardest part of my day. As everything became quiet, loneliness and grief would arrive and stay for hours. I’d find myself mourning the life I wasn’t living, the friendships I wished I had, the relationships I’d lost, and the future I worried I’d never have.
Over the last couple of evenings, something has shifted. The loneliness hasn’t disappeared. Neither has the grief. But instead of filling the whole evening, they’ve come in waves. A few moments here. A passing thought there. They still hurt, but they no longer consume everything else around them.
To me, this feels like an enormous change.
I’m under no illusion that the road ahead will be straightforward. There will almost certainly be setbacks. There will be days where I question whether any of this is working at all. But for the first time in a long time, I feel as though I’m collecting evidence that things can change.
Not because someone has told me they will.
Because, little by little, I’m beginning to experience it for myself.
Twenty days ago, I was simply trying to survive.
Today, feels different, it doesn’t mean I’ve reached the destination.
But for the first time in a very long while, I genuinely believe I’m walking in the right direction.
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