Anxiety, keep on tryin'...

Episodes of anxiety have shown up for me at many different times in my life — and in many different ways. It’s something that, sometimes, I just can’t shake no matter what I try to do.

It tends to arrive at the most inconvenient times, too. Like a broken leg, it’s not exactly something you can reschedule. You just have to deal with it.

Kind of like the song says…

Anxiety, keep on tryin' me

I feel it quietly

Tryin' to silence me, yeah

Anxiety, shake it off of me

Somebody's watchin' meIt's my anxiety, yeah

A few years ago, I confided in some close friends and admitted that anxiety was often the reason I would “no-show” to events I had genuinely been looking forward to. My “maybe” responses weren’t me being flaky — they were emergency exits. Tiny escape hatches I left open just in case.

It wasn’t because I had something better to do or because I suddenly needed to stay home and wash my hair. It was because, at the exact moment when my outfit looked perfect and my hair was cooperating for once, I simply couldn’t bring myself to open the front door and go outside.

Anxiety has also made me completely immobile for 24–48 hours at a time. I call it extreme introverting. It usually happens after a significant period of overwhelm. I never really know when it’s coming, but once it arrives, I feel glued to my bed. All I can do is sleep and binge-watch movies or TV on my iPad.

I don’t answer calls, emails, or texts. I barely get up to eat or drink. Honestly, if my bathroom weren’t right beside my bed, that too might become negotiable.

I tell my kids I have a headache and I’m not feeling well, and thankfully they leave me alone.

My eldest, now in his 20s, will often appear at some point with a cup of tea. For this, I am deeply grateful because, during those moments, even boiling water feels ambitious.

Twice in my 20s, someone called an ambulance for me because my anxiety attacks were so severe — and so poorly understood at the time — that the people around me genuinely thought I was dying. To be fair, I also thought I might be dying. Hyperventilating while feeling like you’re drowning without a life vest is a difficult thing to explain to someone watching from the outside.

As I got older and had kids, I became skilled at hiding these episodes. I would feel them coming on and disappear into my walk-in closet with both the bedroom door and the closet door locked. Very healthy coping mechanisms over here.

Only once did it happen in front of my husband. He was understandably panicked and kept saying, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you.” Meanwhile, I was trying to reassure him by weakly flapping my hand like a bird with a broken wing.

After my first marriage ended, the episodes started happening more frequently. I would be at work with a patient and suddenly feel that familiar pounding in my chest as my breathing became shallow and tight. Somehow, I would pull myself together and breathe through it.

Eventually, I spoke to my doctor. She ran all the necessary bloodwork, checked my heart, and after ruling everything else out, we decided to try anti-anxiety medication.

The 20 or so mini-episodes I had been having regularly reduced to almost none. Apparently, after 20-plus years of white-knuckling my way through life, I needed medication. Imagine that.

Medication hasn’t been the only thing that’s helped me. I practice yoga, which honestly probably kept the episodes manageable for years since I’ve maintained a regular practice since my teens. I meditate daily, exercise regularly, avoid caffeine as much as possible, and spend as much time outdoors as I can. Coffee and espresso are now considered “special occasion beverages” — like champagne, but with palpitations.

The other thing I eventually tried was psilocybin.

A few weeks ago, I was having brunch with friends, and one of them — who is currently studying to become a psychotherapist — started talking about the research surrounding magic mushrooms. I mentioned that I had been micro-dosing for a few years now. She immediately got excited and said she had been studying the effects of micro-dosing on things like social anxiety, and suddenly it all made sense to her why I was now showing up for almost all of our gatherings.

To be clear, I did not arrive at psilocybin casually.

A couple of years ago, my adventure bestie and I signed up for a wellness retreat. I liked the instructor leading it, and the retreat promised a mix of self-reflection, workshops, and rest — exactly what I needed at the time.

After we had already paid and committed, I read the very long description a little more carefully and yelled across the office at my friend:

“What the hell?! We’re doing shrooms?!”

She laughed and replied, “Yeah… that’s kind of the whole point.”

Cue immediate panic.

I was convinced I had accidentally signed up to ruin my life. What if I died? What if I became addicted? What if I lost my mind and started living in the woods speaking exclusively to raccoons?

For context, I had unknowingly consumed mushrooms once before, but I had never willingly taken them.

So naturally, I did what any anxious person does best: I researched obsessively. I watched every documentary I could find, listened to every podcast imaginable, and read everything the internet had to offer.

Nothing suggested I would lose my mind. Nothing suggested addiction. What I did find was a growing body of evidence showing significant benefits for people struggling with depression, anxiety, trauma, and addiction. Many people described long-term improvements that traditional therapies and medications hadn’t provided. Research suggested new neural pathways could form and that many participants experienced meaningful positive changes.

Since then, I’ve experienced three macro-doses.  Two guided in a retreat setting and once with my adventure buddy and a “home made” retreat.   After each one, I noticed a mental shift.

I’m more aware now when my anxiety starts driving the bus — usually when I’m overscheduled, under-rested, and trying to function like a caffeinated squirrel. I show up for my friends now. I stay at events longer. I don’t feel desperate to leave because there are “too many people.” I also no longer feel the need to drink alcohol or use marijuana in order to socialize.

That said, I still occasionally need to isolate and hibernate like a bear for a day or two every few months. But honestly? I’m okay with that. It helps me recharge.

I continue to maintain a healthy lifestyle, and I’m no longer ashamed to say that I take my medication every single day. If I had a life-threatening disease, I would take medication without question. If I had a broken leg, I’d wear a cast. Anxiety deserves the same level of care and compassion.

About a year ago, I tried tapering off my medication. Within three days, that familiar sense of constant fear started creeping back in.

My adventure buddy noticed almost immediately and simply said:

“Take your meds. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Honestly? Solid medical advice.