If there’s been one constant in my life, it’s been anxiety. Always present. Always influencing my decisions. Always a part of me. I think back now to my early childhood and I can feel it in my body. The clenching gut. The uncertainty in my mind. The tension in my shoulders. ‘Will my friends always want to be my friend?’; ‘When is Mum coming to collect me? I’m tired and I just want to feel safe’; ‘I feel so uncomfortable in such a large group. I don’t know what to say or do or how to act.’

It wasn’t until my late teens that I could name it. I always thought it was just me. A part of me. My personality and temperament and way of being in the world all wrapped up in one. The shy little girl who stayed quiet in large groups but who eventually came into her own when one-on-one with her friends after the excitement had died down. The happy but reserved teen who carefully watched on as life happened around her, assessing who and what felt safe and inviting. Even now, the adult whose bodily sensations guide so much of my decisions and my feelings of safety as I navigate the world.

It saddens me to realise this. I wish life could have felt more carefree, more easy, more natural. Instead I was always on the lookout, one eye open for threat. A threat that was constantly there. A threat that my inner child still carries, even after all these years and the countless books I’ve read and hours I’ve sat in the therapy chair. Of course I understand it now. I get it. Why I was always so scared, why she (my inner child) was always so scared. But that doesn’t make it any less sad. I live farmore peacefully now, having learned techniques to soothe it and keep my anxiety at bay, but it will always be a part of me … just one that no longer has the same hold on me as it once had.

I imagine many of you reading this can relate. The constant fear. The feeling on edge. The exhaustion that comes hand in hand with living in threat mode. Countless hours I sat in GPs’ offices proclaiming how exhausted I was. ‘Are you exercising?’, ‘Yes’. ‘Are you drinking water?’, ‘Yes’. ‘Are you sleeping?’, ‘Yes’. But it was always mental exhaustion. It was the hypervigilance and cortisol circling through my body. It was the anxiety.

So often people in my therapy room tell me that they’ve always been ‘a worrier’. ‘So you’ve always suffered from anxiety?’ I gently reply. They pause, struck by what I’ve just said and then utter a quiet ‘Yes. I never thought about it that way. I just thought it was a part of me. My personality and