Okay, deep breath.
Talking about your own mental health is, without a doubt, one of the most personal and sensitive things you can do. I’m feeling the full weight of that right now as my fingers dance over the keyboard, battling with myself about whether today would be a good day to actually post this or just let it sit in my drafts forever again. But you know what? Just for now, I’m going to trudge on.
For what felt like an eternity, I lived with my head hung low, drowning in shame, self-disgust, and insecurity. It was this silent, heavy burden that, completely unbeknownst to me at the time, launched me onto a long, often isolating journey towards recovery.
And where I come from, things are… complex. While I’ve definitely seen more younger people bravely opening up about their mental health, and families being more accepting of their loved ones going through this predicament, there’s still this thick, almost palpable taboo hanging in the air. It’s especially strong when you try to make your struggles open and personal. It’s one thing to hint at it on social media, safely tucked behind a vague username and a generic profile picture. It’s an entirely different thing to actually lay it all out there, for real people to see and perhaps, God forbid, judge.
It’s a weird spot to be in, trying to navigate healing (which, by the way, is an ongoing process for me right now) while knowing that just speaking my truth can feel like an act of rebellion against the very fear that lives inside of me. For me, the wake-up call came too late, hitting me squarely in the face on an unexpected, crowded suffocating train station. It was a moment I never want anyone else to experience.
But maybe, just maybe, by sharing this, it becomes a little bit easier for someone else who’s reading this to take that first brave step in getting help. And for others, perhaps it offers a glimpse into understanding people like me, and countless others, a little better.
Who I Was
I am nine years old. Parent-teacher meetings often followed a familiar script. For three or four years in a row, the report was consistent: “studious,” “shines in some subjects,” “creative,” but always, always, “quiet and reserved.” And then, there it was, emblazoned on my report card, bolded for emphasis: “Shy.” Under the dreaded “What Needs to Be Improved” section, the words “Need to overcome shyness” stared back at me, making my stomach drop. It was a constant conversation between my classroom teacher and my parents, a seemingly inescapable label.
I am 16 years old, and the narrative hadn’t really changed. I was still “too shy,” despite being praised as a “brilliant student.” I was great with art; that’s something new at least. This time, however, new labels entered the conversation too, neatly defining what was supposedly wrong and lacking in me: “lack of self-confidence” and “low self-esteem.” Those words hit differently. Desperate for a solution, I plunged into a rabbit hole of YouTube videos, searching for “how to get my confidence back,” as if it were a lost item. I devoured books, hoping to find a solution. And strangely, amidst all the advice, some parts did explain things I was experiencing. Because to be honest, I’ve always been incredibly shy. But that nagging feeling of inadequacy, the constant questioning of whether I was “enough” or “doing enough” to be better – it’s been a persistent companion I couldn’t get rid of. No matter how many videos I watched, nothing helped with the nagging feeling that I wasn’t enough.
At 23 years old, I was, by all accounts, at the top of my game. University life felt like my personal playground, a stage where I was perpetually in my prime. Dean’s List awards? Semester after semester. Faculty programmes and events? I lived and breathed in campus air. My schedule was a meticulously crafted mosaic of activities: organising events, running marathons, and even picking up futsal for an extra challenge. Archery, debate, public speaking contests, joining workshops – you name it, I was doing it all. And the kicker? None of it ever got in the way of my assignments. I somehow managed to get everything done, always with a little bit of wiggle room to squeeze in just one more activity. I was having fun, I was incredibly active, and from the outside, I probably looked like the epitome of success.
But here’s the thing: I knew, deep down, that I could not ever stop. The thought of a clear weekend, an empty slot in my perfectly packed schedule, would send a frightening shiver down my spine. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, and that anxious, dark feeling would slowly, inevitably, start bubbling to the surface of my consciousness. It was a relentless pursuit, disguised as ambition. I was running away from something, but I didn’t know what it was then.
Now, with today’s eyes and several conversations with my therapist, I see it clearly: it wasn’t just ambition driving me. It was anxiety – and not the good, motivating kind. This anxiety had taken root in the deepest recesses of my personality and outlook, acting as the fuel to my overachieving, non-stop fire. I became a master of disguise, successfully hiding behind the guise of a good student, a reliable worker, a good daughter, a good friend, a wife.
However, the chilling truth was this: if I ever stopped to rest, even for a moment, my mind would spiral out of control. The self-loathing, always lurking just beneath the surface, would immediately take over. I graduated university with a special pink sash draped over my robe, and pages upon pages of certificates detailing my participation and winnings. In everyone’s eyes, including my own at the time, I was destined for great things. And I believed the only way to keep that momentum going, to ensure my “success,” was to ruthlessly shut away any space for self-doubt.
It Started Out Small
So, you get it now: I was a heavy worrier. I’d overthink pretty much everything, all the time. And for the longest time, this just felt… normal to me. My parents, my teachers, my friends – they all called me that. Even I described myself that way. I knew, compared to most people, my worry levels were off the charts. It almost felt less like a flaw and more like a personality trait, rather than some dark introverted side of me.
But how did it really begin? It feels like I’ve told this story a dozen times – to my psychologist and his students, to my mum, to my fiancé (now husband), and to my closest friends. To be completely honest, it’s incredibly hard to pinpoint one major life event that was the sole culprit behind my current struggles. It’s not easy, especially since I’ve always had this tendency to panic over even the slightest inconvenience.
However, if I really have to pinpoint it, the seeds of this anxiety probably started taking firm root when I was completing my master’s degree around 2018-2020. I was dating my ex then, had pretty much zero close friends outside of my classmates, and I was relentlessly striving to be the best student I could possibly be in every single class. It felt like a fresh start, and with a supportive boyfriend cheering on my achievements, I was determined to stay on top of my game again.
Yet, even during those seemingly “secondary prime” years, some days I could feel my resolution being chipped away, piece by piece. It was a slow erosion caused by loneliness, low self-esteem, and just feeling utterly lost. I have, I’ve since learned, incredibly high expectations of myself. Nobody had told me what to achieve or who I should be, I just assumed I had to be the best I could. The funny thing is, I didn’t even realise this was how I was treating myself until much, much later, closer to the present day, when my incredibly observant mother pointed it out.
Then there was that night. It was around 11 PM, and I was in the living room of my rented condo, having just gotten back from a 9 PM class. I was trying to complete what should have been an easy assignment, probably no more than a thousand words, but absolutely no good ideas were popping into my head. Hunched over my laptop, my head literally felt like it was going to explode from the sheer pressure of nothingness.
And then, I just broke down. Hard.
I had to stand by the small balcony attached to the living room to calm down – the memory’s a bit of a blur of panic. I was so shaky and scared, my face felt physically and literally numb all over. So, I called my then boyfriend. I blurted out that I was stuck, that I was so worried whatever I wrote wouldn’t make sense, wouldn’t be critical enough to my own impossible standards. At first, he tried to calm me down, reassuring me that I was doing okay. But I just kept blabbering, repeating how worried I was, that I had no more good ideas, and how utterly tired I felt. Hearing myself, so close to hysterics, I must have sounded completely unhinged. It rattled both of us, that raw panic spilling out.
Fast forward a bit to around 2020, when the COVID-19 MCO (Movement Control Order) first started here in Malaysia. I was single as a pringle then (my ex and I had broken up), and I was spending most of my time at home. I vaguely remember moments while I was writing my research project when I’d experience this intense difficulty breathing. I’d get very breathless, as if I’d just run a marathon. I honestly thought nothing of it, maybe I was just physically unfit, or hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. But it would get so bad, so breathlessly overwhelming, that I’d have to lie down, slouched over my study desk, until the feeling subsided. Otherwise, I’d feel faint. At one point, my parents even wondered if I had low iron levels or low blood pressure. Both were true. When we got me officially checked at the hospital, the readings weren’t alarmingly off the charts. Everything was fine on paper. So, I kept taking iron supplements and moved on, thinking there was nothing more to it.
And Then It Happened…
It was my first day at my job. I was on the MRT at 8:30 AM, navigating the morning rush in Kuala Lumpur. I was excited and nervous to get to my job and meet the team. Then it hit me. My first panic attack in public. My knees felt suddenly, terrifyingly weak, physically shaking. My hands trembled too, and a wave of nausea washed over me, a bad stomach-ache that made me want to double over. I felt lightheaded, like I could black out right there in that incredibly crowded train. I had no idea what was happening, only that I had to get out the moment the doors opened at the next station.
I stumbled off, found a nearby metal bench, and sat down, elbows on my knees, feigning to intently scroll through my phone. I just didn’t want anyone to see that something was terribly wrong with me. My stomach was queasy, so I bolted for the nearest bathroom. I wanted to cry, I was still shaking, and my breathing felt completely irregular. I was utterly bewildered.
That particular intense episode didn’t happen again until sometime in March the following year. But then, the panic moved into my nights. I’d wake up in the middle of the night shaking, drenched in cold sweat despite my close-to-freezing air-conditioned room. My hands would feel completely numb and prickly at the same time, half my face would be numb, and my heart would be banging inside my ears. Breathing became so difficult, it felt like I’d forgotten how to manually do it right.
Nothing, it seemed, had triggered me to suddenly wake up in such a state. Yet, my thoughts were swamped with worries about work – deadlines and tasks my brain kept screaming I wasn’t doing well with, or that I’d never get them done on time. The irony was, in reality, things were going well at work, and I was genuinely a valuable asset to my team. But my brain chose to relentlessly spam me with the worst-case scenarios, making me panic even more.
At this point, nobody knew what was going wrong with me, and I certainly didn’t know what I was going through either. But there I was, involuntarily awake for hours at night, with a full day of work at the office looming. I was utterly exhausted, scared, and completely confused.
One night, around 2 AM, I woke my parents. I just told them I couldn’t sleep. And it continued like this for almost a whole week, especially on days I had to be in the office. The following week, I simply couldn’t stand it anymore. I burst into tears in front of my sleep-dazed parents. I was visibly shaking, my fingers and toes had gone numb, and the whole sensation, coupled with the overwhelming worry about work and everything else, just consumed me. My parents looked so worried, and even now, I still feel bad for dragging them into that mess. But I just couldn’t stand the strange, exhausting night occurrences alone anymore.
A Few Appointments Later…
The next day, I woke up determined. I needed answers, even if it meant braving the loud world outside. The clinic’s AC seemed intent on turning me into a human icicle. But I pushed through, sat down with a doctor, and poured out everything. He listened patiently, then dropped the word: anxiety disorder. He couldn’t be sure without further examination, but he wrote me a letter, a golden ticket to a proper assessment at the hospital’s psychiatry clinic that same week. The waiting began.
When the day finally arrived, I found myself face-to-face with Dr. A, my newly appointed psychiatrist. Our session stretched for almost a full hour, and I left no stone unturned. I told him about the subtle shifts, the creeping changes in my habits. How WhatsApp notifications, once a trivial ping, now sent me spiralling into mini-panic attacks. The “ting!” sound became a trigger, forcing me to mute entire chat groups, though I could still see the messages pile up. And trains? Forget standing. Ever since that terrifying incident on the train last year, I’ve insisted on finding a seat, the trauma still fresh, still raw.
But the worst part? It was the unpredictable panic attacks. I could be happily working, completely absorbed in work, and then, out of nowhere, this cold, sharp fear would stab at my chest. A literal knife-like sensation, stealing my breath, leaving me gasping for air.
By the end of that first appointment, Dr. A delivered a diagnosis that hit me like a ton of bricks. Not one, but two disorders. Talk about an unpleasant surprise. I nodded, I absorbed it all like a sponge, but inside, I was crumbling. It was in that moment that reality truly sank in: I was actually losing myself. The diagnoses? Anxiety disorder, specifically the kind linked to those persistent, extreme worries that can pop up even when there’s no obvious stressor, and Generalised Anxiety Disorder (GAD) – that relentless anxiousness that doesn’t just show up for stressful situations but lingers, a constant hum in the background.
Then came the recommendation: medication, to numb the relentless anxiety. I hesitated. I came hoping for therapy, a talking kind of cure, something that didn’t involve pills. I’ve always hated taking medicine, and honestly, I’ve seen how medication can change people with mental illnesses. The fear of becoming “one of them,” of losing who I was, was overwhelming. I needed time to think, to process this unexpected turn on my journey.
A week later, I found myself back in Dr. A’s office, a knot of apprehension tightening in my stomach. The decision weighed heavily, but ultimately, I agreed to try the medication. “Okay, let’s give two weeks a go,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Then in August, you’ll come back, and we’ll see what to do next.”
He handed me two prescriptions: one, a small pill aimed at taming my anxiety, and the other, to help with my sleep. As I held them, a wave of sadness washed over me. Was this truly my new reality? Chugging down pills just to keep the “monster” of anxiety at bay – a monster that, at the time, felt solely ruthless at ruining my life. It was a heavy thought, but a step I felt needed to take. As hopeless as I felt, I didn’t think I had many other options.
Recovery: Where I Am Now
After lengths of consultations and therapy sessions, I learned a few things about myself and my relationship with anxiety.
- It was a monster trying to ruin my life.
- I hated it. I hated how easily it could shake me.
- Everything in my surroundings was a suspect in triggering the next panic attack.
- I felt ashamed of feeling weak. How could something happening inside my own head bring me to my knees more effectively than any physical illness ever could?
- The image I had of myself shattered; I no longer felt like me, or at least, not the “perfect” me I thought I was.
- I had to decide who I could share about my anxiety with. I felt so vulnerable and preferred to keep it within family only.
- I was a baggage in my new relationship with my fiancé. Here I was: an overthinker, incredibly shy, “mentally problematic,” and there he was: all rainbows and sunshine for miles. It felt like such a stark contrast.
Looking back, it’s safe to say I wasn’t exactly kind to myself during the first two years of healing. It was a clumsy, often chaotic dance between self-pity, confusion, and hope, punctuated by alternating new medications and its side-effects and therapy appointments. The path felt anything but linear.
But slowly, something began to shift. Little by little, I started to notice changes. Those terrifying weekly panic attacks gradually reduced to just once a week, then once a month, and now, thankfully, only every few months. Sleep, once a distant impossible dream, becomes more consistent. I have coping mechanisms to handle the anticipated panic attacks before they spiral out of control.
What seemed impossible at the beginning eventually happened: I started to come to terms with my anxiety. I began to learn how to listen to my worries and, more importantly, to myself. I learned the vital skill of setting boundaries between myself and the things that scared me. Anxiety is no longer that monstrous “other,” something detached and separate from me. Instead, I now see it as a part of me that simply needs time, attention, and care. It’s still a journey, but it’s one I’m finally navigating with a little more grace.
When I first started therapy, I remember just unloading. Every single worry, every fear, it all just tumbled out. I even got scared I’d spooked my therapist into complete silence; she just stared at me through the camera lens during our online session, and I thought, “Oh no, I’ve broken her!” But she assured me, time and time again, that nothing was impossible if I just kept going, kept trying. Over the months we worked together, we gently ironed out each and every one of my concerns, piece by painstaking piece.
No healing journey is ever the same, and getting to where I am now certainly wasn’t easy. I’m almost four years into this healing journey, and believe me, there have been countless ups and downs. It’s truly a continuous process of learning, falling, adapting, and most importantly, accepting that progress isn’t always linear. There are good days, bad days, and days where you just have to remind yourself to breathe.
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