“Anxiety is a response to a nervous system that learned early on it had to protect itself.” ~Dr. Hilary Jacobs Hendel
Across many lives, anxiety shapes how people show up, hold back, and connect. In this account, anxiety presented as a pounding heart, a tight chest, trembling hands, and a persistent fear of not being enough. With time, it became clear that anxiety was not a moral failing, but an adaptive response learned in environments where emotional needs were unmet and where fear and shame felt louder than safety.
The roots appeared in childhood. In first grade, a report card ranking seventh sparked innocent excitement. When a parent responded with a sharp tone—“It’s bad!”—shock flooded the small body and mind. The message internalized was simple and heavy: worth depended on performance. When the next semester brought a rank of third and praise arrived, relief was brief and was quickly replaced by the dread of not being able to keep it up. Thus began the belief that achievement could never truly secure safety or love.
These early imprints resurfaced later in everyday situations. At a gas station, for example, anxiety surged and muscles froze, even when no one was rushing. The reaction traced back to a childhood moment of being shouted at to “move faster” in line. With adult reflection, it became apparent that the parent’s intention had been to keep the queue moving; however, the nervous system still experienced the present as if reliving the past. The body carried the anxiety long after the moment had passed.
A breaking point arrived in adulthood. At five weeks pregnant, a partner’s tragic accident led to a two-week coma and then death. Grief, financial instability, and the responsibilities of pregnancy removed the option of avoidance. Emotions long buried demanded attention. In that crucible, practical methods emerged to prevent spiraling and to restore composure.
Important note: The following practices are complementary supports and not substitutes for therapy, medication, or professional diagnosis. They aim to help regulate the nervous system, support emotional integration, and create a greater sense of safety.
1) The gratitude shift: turn anxiety into information. Instead of resisting anxious sensations, meet them with acknowledgment—“Hi, anxiety. I see you doing your job. Thank you for showing up.” Then inquire: What is this sensation communicating? Where might it be rooted in history? What action right now would increase safety and support? This stance converts fear into data and reintroduces agency.
2) Slow down and simplify life. Overload obscures self-awareness. Releasing nonessential obligations, overpacked schedules, and numbing habits (such as endless scrolling) creates space for insight. With fewer distractions, the drivers of anxiety become more visible and workable.
3) Trace the roots through quiet observation (and, where appropriate, fasting). In stillness, the first persistent memories that surface often point to the origin of anxiety. When formal therapy was inaccessible, structured fasting was used to quiet external noise and invite clarity, beginning gently with a twelve-hour fruit-and-vegetable fast, then a twelve-hour water fast, and eventually a sunrise-to-sunset fast. Each hunger cue became a moment to restate an intention through prayer or journaling: “Please show me the root cause of this anxiety and how to release it.” In many dharmic traditions—Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism—disciplined restraint and mindful inquiry are longstanding methods for cultivating equanimity; any fasting practice should be undertaken with medical guidance.
4) Catch the first emotion—often shock. The body stores layers of pain, with shock frequently appearing first. Naming shock early interrupts the physiological spiral. For instance, when overwhelm led to snapping at a child, later reflection brought back vivid memories of being snapped at by caregivers. Recognizing how shocking that felt made space to process rather than repeat the pattern.
5) Write the details of the shock—and then the other emotions. Specificity accelerates integration. Note the subtle cues: a sudden glare, a clipped tone, a clenched jaw, a slammed door. Then name the emotions honestly—fear, humiliation, sadness, anger, betrayal—so the nervous system stops treating them as unspoken threats.
6) Grieve the losses. After shock, grieving helps pain move through the system instead of being stored. Crying for the safety, compassion, and respect that were needed but not received is not weakness; it is a somatic process that restores balance. Music can support this release and deepen the completion of emotional cycles.
7) Name the unmet needs. Grief clarifies needs. Statements such as “When shouting followed mistakes, safety collapsed; emotional security was violated” or “When praise arrived only for achievement, consistent acceptance felt absent” translate diffuse pain into actionable knowledge. Naming needs enables clear, adult requests and boundaries.
8) See the wider context and practice compassion for parental limitations. Understanding the pressures on caregivers—financial stress, limited support, and the challenges of neurodiversity—does not excuse harm but allows two truths to coexist: the actions caused pain, and the caregivers lacked better tools. This perspective helps soften resentment and disrupt intergenerational cycles. In dharmic ethics, this reflects ahimsa (non-harm) and karuna (compassion) applied to oneself and others.
9) Write the worst-case scenarios. When spiraling, the mind generates catastrophic futures. Rather than force positive thinking, list the worst possibilities—even the extreme ones. Naming them strips them of vagueness and power. Having lived through homelessness, natural disasters, and profound loss, denial was not protective; clarity was.
10) Prepare intuitive actions and identify help. For each potential scenario, note the first protective step and the first person to contact, followed by additional options. This pre-planning signals to the nervous system: there is capacity, there are resources, and there is community. Agency grows as helplessness recedes.
Across these practices, several trauma-informed principles recur: curiosity instead of judgment, titration of emotion rather than overwhelm, and gradual exposure to memories with ample self-compassion. Breath awareness, mindfulness, journaling, and ethical reflection are shared resources across Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism and can be adapted respectfully by anyone seeking peace.
Anxiety may remain part of the human experience, yet it need not govern it. Progress is uneven, but emotional intelligence can be learned and taught—offering children and communities models of regulation, dignity, and care. With consistency, these methods support nervous system regulation, restore a felt sense of safety, and soften the belief that life must be lived on perpetual high alert.
Inspired by this post on Tiny Buddha.
