To the back-row girls: anxiety, healing, and finding my voice

T/W: mentions of anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation 

Am I blinking too fast? Breathing too loud?

My knees clashed together like knobby cymbals as I stood onstage. It was a good thing the microphone didn't have blood circulation. The pressure of my fingers would have caused permanent numbness.

I forced myself to loosen my grip and brought my free hand to rest in my front pant pocket. That looks awkward. I shifted my arm behind my back. More awkward. At my side? How do normal people stand?

"—and now I will pass it off to Kaila to conclude the presentation."

Oh, no.

Oh, yes— my classmate gestured for me to step forward. Unfortunately, the only thing I had focused on over the last ten minutes was the loudness of my swallows. I had no idea what to say. I stared at the twenty-person audience in horror and ad-libbed a montage of words that probably didn't exist in the Oxford Dictionary.

***

The above account summarizes most of my social interactions up until age 19. Whether participating in class, ordering at a restaurant, or attending a family gathering, anxiety was a dominating force in my childhood and young adult life. I once rehearsed a phone call to the auto shop for three hours only to be sent to voicemail on the first ring. My social anxiety was so extreme that by adulthood, I had convinced myself I was defective. In a heartbreaking self-review pulled from a 2018 diary, I described myself as “a girl who burns bridges. A girl whose brain goes blank at any opportunity to speak. Self-centered, self-conscious, unlikeable, incapable. I would give anything to be someone other than the person I am.”

My struggles with anxiety compounded until I reached a breaking point last year. Depressed, despondent, and a danger to myself, I made the difficult decision to pause college and enroll in an intensive therapy called IOP. Across two months, those 100 hours of therapy changed my life. IOP taught me to embrace my identity, challenge my inner critic, and extend compassion to myself in ways I never had before. Now, at twenty years old, I am at peace for the first time in two decades. This is the story of how I stopped living for others’ approval—and started loving who I already was. This is the story of how I reclaimed control. This is my story of hope.

Life as the back-row girl

Most of my childhood was spent in my mind. Daydreaming about fictional civilizations, drawing blueprints for novel inventions, aspiring to change the world... My ambitions were lofty. But as I grew, an internal voice questioned my capabilities and tore my confidence to scraps. That voice was echoed by mentors in the form of well-intentioned advice: 

"You're so quiet," they said. "You could do so many great things, if only you spoke up and shared your ideas."

I was a back-row girl— a bright mind trapped by the shadow of judgement. Terrified of failure, I craved anonymity; and for a while, anonymity worked. I made friends. I scored high enough on exams to offset low participation grades. I had some notion of who I was, even as I was labeled "quiet" and “shy." To conquer my anxiety would have meant facing discomfort, and that discomfort would surely worsen my problems. Really, I was doing myself a favor— right?

Why I forced myself into the spotlight

By the age of fifteen, I had the self-awareness to recognize that I was not “shy,” as others seemed intent on labeling me. I was actually an extrovert, and my happiest moments came when surrounded by others. It was my fear of rejection that kept me from forming authentic connections. My social guardrails were near-impossible to pierce.

Desperate to end my loneliness, I read hundreds of articles about social anxiety. It was through these articles that I learned about exposure therapy. The technique encourages individuals to face their fears in gradual increments— to get comfortable with the uncomfortable. To this day, I advocate for this approach. At this stage in my life, however, there were complications which dulled its efficacy. Motivated not by self love, but by the love others had for me, I saw conquering anxiety as a means to fit in. This was not a healthy mindset. As I wrote when reflecting on my first attempt at exposure therapy:

I wanted to be known as witty instead of quiet, spontaneous instead of predictable, extroverted instead of reserved. I put my anxiety in a cage and made myself into someone with an impression. Someone whose absence would be noticed. In the process, I put all my emotions in there with it.

By the end of high school, I had more friends than ever, but I felt more alone. I was unhappy and self-conscious, and I fed off others’ opinions about me. Two years later, my growing isolation would trigger a major depressive episode in which I learned healing must be done for YOU, not anyone else. 

How healing from anxiety really happens

In college, I realized that my anxiety was a trigger for my depressive episodes. That made it one of the largest barriers to my happiness. Not attending office hours meant missing explanations on confusing material. Not signing up for new clubs meant keeping the same, small circle of friends. Not wanting to eat in public led to skipped meals and a constant, distracting hunger. I was struggling not only mentally, but academically, socially, and physically. I knew I needed to ask for help; I just feared what would happen once I did.

By early 2024, I was holding on to my last thread of hope— and my family and friends noticed. With their support, I admitted the full severity of my illness for the first time in my life. It was then that I made the decision to take a hiatus from university. Over 100 hours of psychiatrist appointments, group therapy, and individual work— supported by some of the kindest people I’ve ever met— followed. The people I met in therapy taught me how to love myself for who I am, and in doing so, they saved my life.

My first lesson: Healing means giving yourself permission to be the main character.

For most of my life, I mistook people-pleasing for kindness. My mind was tuned to a frequency that asked, "How can I make them happy?" in every interaction. As a student leader, I joined calls at a moment’s notice and spent lunch hours editing slide decks that should have been submitted the day prior. I wasn't being kind. I was teaching others that my time, energy, and boundaries were negotiable. To heal, I had to set boundaries that put myself at the focal point of my life. I couldn’t expect to get better if I only brought 50% of myself to each session.

My second lesson: Healing is about acceptance.

Before therapy, my go-to strategies to counteract my intrusive thoughts were denial, distraction, and disregard. Ever tried to not think about something? Doesn’t exactly work. Distraction can be an effective short-term coping strategy, yes, but it's not sustainable. In the long term, compartmentalization breeds burnout.

Therapy taught me to accept reality without judgment. Yes, I live with unpleasant thoughts. Yes, I experience unpleasant feelings. Yes, I've made unpleasant decisions. To move forward, I had to accept these things as true. You can’t heal from something when you deny and resist its existence.

My third lesson: Healing requires consistency.

The most difficult part about my healing journey is that it required constant effort. My intrusive thoughts followed me into bed, into the shower, into conversations and classrooms and social outings. They called me an embarrassment, a failure, a social pariah, a monster. Worst were the thoughts that attacked the traits for which I prided myself most.

Coping skills like exercise, chores, and hobbies built my distress tolerance, but I made the most progress when I faced my thoughts head-on. Every day, for one hour, I journaled. For every insult thrown by my inner critic, I wrote out a counterpoint twice the length. I listed my accomplishments and my strengths. I put so much effort into finding reasons to love myself that it became a subconscious habit. Healing required an exhausting amount of dedication. It felt impossible... until it wasn't. Over time, self-love became my default setting, and today, I can list my strengths in seconds, not hours.

My fourth lesson: Healing is not linear.

As much as I wished for my healing to mirror the consistency with which I attended therapy, the process didn't work that way. For me, the ultimate goal of therapy is to reduce the severity and frequency of my episodes. It didn't get rid of the rain cloud; it just shifted it from directly overhead. It's hard not to catastrophize when a relapse occurs, but self-compassion and forgiveness are necessary on our darker days. When I experience a flare-up in my mental health, I tell my doctors, but I also remember that bad days (weeks, even) are part of the process.

In conclusion: A love letter to the back-row girls

To all the girls sitting quietly in the back row—watching, wondering, overthinking every blink and breath—I see you. I was you. And I want you to know that there is nothing wrong with you. Your voice is not too quiet. Your feelings are not too much. You are not weak for struggling or broken for needing help. You are thoughtful, creative, resilient—and you deserve to take up space in this world, exactly as you are.

Healing from anxiety didn’t make me perfect; it gave me the strength to accept my imperfections. Today, I can live with my fears instead of being ruled by them. And slowly, through a thousand imperfect steps, I’ve built a life that’s mine. A life where my worth isn’t measured by how loudly I speak, how often I say yes, or how many friends I acquire. 

If you are where I once was, please hold on. Keep showing up for yourself. Healing takes time, but you are worthy of that time. You are worthy of that care. You are worthy of love—not for who you might become someday, but for the person you already are.

You don’t have to sit in the back forever. When you're ready, take a step forward—even if it’s a small one. I'll be cheering you on.

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