Recovering From Anxiety: Learning To Trust Yourself

Anxiety isn’t just a feeling—it’s more like a full cast of characters taking up residence inside your chest. There’s the rapid-fire narrator, the worst-case-scenario screenwriter, the doom-prepping squirrel who’s been storing acorns of worry since 1997.

If you’ve lived with anxiety for a while, you probably know that these inner voices aren’t just making noise for fun. They’re trying, in their own awkward ways, to help. They believe that if they stay alert—if they run every possible outcome through the spin cycle—you might just be spared disaster. Or rejection. Or regret. Or crying in public because you forgot your best friend’s birthday (again).

They mean well. But they’re exhausting.

And here's the thing: they didn’t show up randomly. These parts of us often formed in response to moments in our lives when things weren’t safe—when someone needed to be on high alert, when staying small kept us from being criticized, when overthinking gave us the illusion of control.

The trouble is, they haven’t gotten the memo that you're not seven anymore. Or sixteen. Or whatever age it was when those coping skills first took root.

When Anxiety Takes The Wheel

Most of us can feel when the squirrel (or the worrier, or the perfectionist) is driving the bus. Our hearts race, our stomachs churn, and we run endless mental simulations trying to find the “right” choice that will prevent bad things from happening.

And often, when that loop becomes too much, another internal voice jumps in—the “shut-it-down” voice. The one that says: “Scroll. Snack. Sleep. Escape.” That voice isn't a villain either. It's trying to pull the emergency brake so the overthinking doesn’t burn the house down.

So here we are. With one part trying to protect us through vigilance and another trying to protect us from the first one. That’s a lot of protecting. But where’s the actual comfort?

Meeting The Kid Behind The Curtain

If we slow down—really slow down—we might discover that beneath all the panic and noise is someone else entirely: a younger part of ourselves who is still carrying old fears. A child who felt overwhelmed or unimportant or unsafe. And instead of being cared for, they were told to toughen up. Or keep quiet. Or just “be good.”

That kid never left. And when anxiety ramps up, it’s often their voice we’re hearing, through layers of protectors. The child doesn’t need lectures or logic. They need someone kind. Someone steady. Someone who doesn’t flinch.

Enter: The Inner Grownup

Let’s be honest: many of us feel like we’re just winging this whole adult thing. Inside, we still feel twelve sometimes. Or four. Or twenty-seven and totally out of our depth.

But here’s the surprising news: even if you’ve never felt like much of a grown-up on the inside, you can become one. Not by being perfect or calm all the time, but by cultivating a kind of steady, compassionate presence that can sit with the other parts—not override them, not silence them, but be with them.

This inner grown-up isn’t the same as the inner critic (you know the one—the finger-wagger who uses shame like a megaphone). This is more like a quiet, grounded part of you who can say:

“I hear you. I know you’re scared. I’m here now.”

That sentence alone can shift the atmosphere inside.

Building Trust From The Inside Out

This process of recovery isn’t about getting rid of anxiety. That would be like trying to rip out your car’s check-engine light just so you don’t have to see it blinking. You’d miss the message—and possibly cause more damage.

Anxiety is signaling something. What we’re aiming for isn’t silence—it’s understanding. Not control, but connection.

When those anxious voices start spinning, you don’t have to believe everything they say. But you also don’t have to shut them down. You can get curious. You can ask, “What are you afraid might happen? What do you need right now?”

At first, this might feel weird. Contrived. Like you’re pretending to be your own wise aunt. That’s okay. Every new relationship is a little awkward at the start.

But over time, you build something extraordinary: trust with yourself.

You Don't Have To "Fix" Anything

There is no final exam you have to pass to be okay. No perfect meditation that will cancel out your anxiety forever. Recovery is more like learning to dance with the parts of you that used to terrify you.

It's showing up again and again. It’s noticing when you’ve been taken over by the squirrel or the scared kid or the numbing escape artist—and gently coming back to yourself.

That’s what healing looks like.

Not perfection. Not silence. Just presence. Kindness. And a growing sense that maybe—just maybe—you can trust the person who’s starting to steer the ship.

Even if that person is you.