Anxiety

Anxiety is not my friend.

It’s the demon on my shoulder that I’ve carried around since I was 7 or 8 who consistently tells me I’m not good enough. Who tells me I am going to fail. Who tells me to give up and not even try.

It drives my otherwise fabulous blood pressure sky high. It hovers in my chest, threatening panic attacks over the smallest things.

I exercise daily.

I walk.

I do yoga.

I write.

I meditate.

I published my own fucking book–and it is selling.

And I still doubt myself so much, it physically makes me sick.

I am still living with this fear.

But I am better than this.

I am strong. I am capable. I am pliant. And my words mean something. They are important.

It is worth pushing through the fear.

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