I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder a few weeks ago.
There will be no story this month—just some reflections and musings from moi.
“How do you feel about the diagnosis I am giving you?,” my therapist asked.
I shifted in my green velvet office chair as her eyes studied my facial expression and body language through the Telehealth camera.
I placed my hands under my thighs, puckered my lips towards the ceiling and cocked my head to the side as I pensively considered her question.
In a few moments I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t earth shattering. If I was being honest with her—and myself—it made sense. I live in a constant state of low-grade anxiety on most days. I have become comfortable with it as much as an everyday friend who shows up unannounced regularly to hang and stay around—a normal, familiar part of my life.
On the rare occasions that I am sitting still, truly at peace, I quickly get nervous because it is so abnormal for me to not live with anxiety. If my mind isn’t running a mile a minute or I don’t feel even the slightest tightness in my chest, or my stomach sweeping the floor, or a rush of hot trepidation rising from the back of my neck to my ears, my mind begins to scan and search for something to worry about—for something that I may have missed or done wrong.
I am often waiting for “the other shoe to drop.”
As a result, it is hard for me to relax, to rest. But that’s exactly what I’ve been intentionally working on this past month.
It’s easy for me to get lost in the demands of my work, my marriage, managing my household, trying to be healthy and slim thick, and even in keeping up with my writing here on Substack. Although I love all of these things, they can quickly squeeze out every drop of my capacity and leave me feeling drained.
So I’ve been outside more.
I’ve been reading more.
Been walking more.
Napping more.
Staying off my phone more.
Taking care of my plants more.
Sitting in silence more.
Praying more.
Going to therapy more.
Stopping and wondering more.
And as a result, this month, I’m not dropping a story. I usually like to give you all a heads up when a break is coming but this was unplanned. When another story fell through at the last minute, I made the decision to not panic and rush to write in order to publish something for the sake of, despite what my anxiety was telling me to do.
“Girl, you better write one of them other stories you have in the queue or else you’ll lose relevance and momentum with your readers.”
Hard eye roll. Hard pass.
Instead, I chose to rest in the rhythm of grace, knowing that you, I and we will be alright without a story this month.
The world continues to spin at full speed, even when we stop, and that’s such a humbling reminder to rest. We don’t have to keep up all the time.
I told my therapist that I don’t view my diagnosis as a label I have to carry with shame. I view it as language that speaks to what I’ve been experiencing for the better part of my life and can now help me navigate what I deal with on a daily basis.
It informs me. It doesn’t hinder me. Nor does it serve as a crutch for me to evade accountability. And it dang sure isn’t something I feel I should have to hide.
Lately, I am learning, embracing and living out the concept that to know self is to know God. As I become more clear on things I am dealing with internally, I can be more discerning about the difference between God’s voice and the voice of anxiety that is constantly telling me to be more and do more—or else. I have more thoughts on this so maybe I’ll run a series but I’ll end here for now.
In the meantime, instead of a story this month, I’m challenging all of us to slow down, be still and get to know ourselves a little better with the following journal prompts.
Answer one or answer all three, up to you. As long as you don't answer out of compulsion or pressure—that defeats the purpose.
And then if you feel comfortable, share your answer in the comments. As always, we’re all on this healing and self-awareness journey together:
How is busyness acting as an addiction in my life, and what would it look like to slow down and practice pausing to be with God and myself in the morning and evening?
What is a specific limitation (a physical boundary, an illness, time constraints, or a season of waiting) that I have been fighting, and how might God be inviting me to embrace it?
What losses am I currently grieving, and how can I process those sorrows with God rather than running from them?1
“Without knowledge of self, there is no knowledge of God.” - John Calvin
Love + light,
Bria
Emotionally Healthy Spirituality by Peter Scazzero