What Happened When I Stopped Pretending Everything Was Perfect

My parents taught me to face my problems. If something was wrong, it was my job to solve it. They were always there for me, ready to listen and help. It didn’t matter if I had trouble with a teacher, drama with a friend, or an essay that confused me. But they weren’t going to swoop in and fix things. That was my responsibility — honestly, I’m grateful for that lesson in self-reliance.

A strange result of that mindset was that my family and I too, never trusted medication. Tylenol for a headache? Fine. Lipitor for cholesterol? Sure. But meds for your mind? That was where the line got drawn. Maybe it’s generational. Perhaps it’s cultural pride. It could react to a world where quick fixes are sold more than real solutions. This happens with Big Pharma or even a Betrolla ad that claims instant relief.

The reason doesn’t matter. The doubt about therapy and psychiatric meds dug deep into me. It took years to realize that feeling emotional wasn’t a personal failure. I’ve understood that reaching out for help doesn’t make you weak — it means you’re human. That maybe — maybe — we don’t always have to go it alone.

You should be stronger than that.

Or at least I should be.

In college, I studied “shadow syndromes.” These are milder forms of major mental disorders. Many people deal with them, but they often remain untreated. They aren’t as noticeable as their more severe counterparts. I know these syndromes are real and can lead to real challenges in life. I know that highly effective medications have been developed to address them.

I was wrong about my anxiety. I used to believe my anxiety was minor and manageable on my own. It took me a decade to realize I was wrong.

I still get stressed, snap at my kids, and argue with my husband, but those emotions don’t consume me now. For the first time in as long as I can remember, they feel ordinary, like rational responses to the world around me.

They feel manageable.

My worries once screamed in my head, drowning out logic. But now, for the first time in ages, I can hold a fear, examine it, and either tackle it or set it aside for later. Far from feeling drugged, I think clearly than I have in years. The clarity I’ve found has made a massive difference in my life and marriage. I can worry about work, then put aside the worry and play with my children before bed. I can argue with Kendrick and explain my feelings rather than lashing out.

I was scared of something else, too. Taking a pill felt like it could change my identity. I worried it would shift my label from Someone Who’s Got It Under Control to Someone With Problems. After I shared my story about medication, many people reached out. They also struggle with anxiety but stay quiet. They fear being judged or discovered. And I realized that the fact that I’m scared of that stigma, too, is precisely why I need to be open about it.

I spent years trying to fight with my bare hands. I ignored other tools that I could and should have used.

Looking back, I see I wasted years battling anxiety alone. I ignored helpful tools that could have made a difference. It’s not that I gave up my beliefs — I evolved them. It’s no longer about pushing through alone. It’s about finding real solutions, whatever they look like. A crutch holds your weight for you, but a tool helps you grow stronger. The difference matters more than I ever realized.

Conclusion

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, strength doesn’t always look like toughness or total independence. Sometimes, it seems like asking for help. Sometimes, it looks like picking clarity instead of chaos. This clarity might come in a way you once thought you’d never need. I haven’t lost who I am. I’ve found parts of myself I couldn’t reach before. There’s a calmer, steadier version of me that was always there, hidden beneath too much noise.

So no, I’m not pretending everything is perfect anymore. But it feels okay not to for the first time in a long time.