Talking mental health with your doctor when you are down with viral, is generally a bad idea. But, I am a master at it – the art of making bad decisions. Anyway. These things have always been a balancing act for me, or life in general, like walking on a rope high above the ground. Each step needs precision, but the ground is far, and the rope sways with the wind of emotions, thoughts, and fears.
For as long as I can remember, I have been my own harshest critic. Every second of my waking life, a voice in my head whispers—sometimes shouts—“You could have done better.” It’s not just self-awareness; it’s judgment so deep that it colours every conversation, every decision, even the smallest of actions like chatting with someone at the grocery store. It’s not that I don’t care for others. In fact, I care deeply, maybe too much. But, that is scary to express. And that care never extends inward. Self-compassion? No, that’s something I have always believed needs to be earned, not something I deserve inherently.
I carry this belief like a burden and sometimes like a shield. It has been with me so long that the idea of letting it go feels like saying goodbye to a family member. Strange, isn’t it? To hold onto something that abuses you daily but still feels like it’s part of your identity. This self-critical voice has dictated my life for as long as I can remember. Separation from it feels like jumping into an ocean without knowing how to swim, even though I’ve learned before, I don’t trust myself to remember how.
This is the frame of mind I bring to every decision in my life. Most of my choices have been impulsive. Overthinking, which I’m a master of, never helps. It’s like a trap I set for myself, knowing full well I can’t escape once I step into it. When I’m caught in that loop, I know overthinking doesn’t work, but I can’t stop. So, I act on impulse. Some would call it reckless; I call it survival. The funny thing is, this impulsivity, combined with my hyperfocus has led me to achieve things that make people say, “Wow, that’s inspiring.” Ultramarathons, for instance. Who decides on a whim to run hundreds of kilometers? Me. And then I pour every ounce of my being into it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I learn.
And this comes at a cost. It’s draining, unsustainable, and pushes me to take risks because every time I have to up what I did before. I need the thrill, the growth, the challenge. I’ve been lucky so far. Hyperfocus has pulled me out of tough situations in races, or life in general, but I’ve always wondered—what happens when luck runs out?
That question is part of why I am back to where I started. Just as before, it’s daunting. I’ve never been on medication before, not for anything. The idea of incorporating it into my daily life, of calling it “medicine,” stirs up anxieties I can’t ignore. But I’m also hopeful. This is the first time in my life I feel like I’m on the verge of answers. Answers to why my mind works the way it does, why I’ve been caught in cycles of overthinking and impulsivity, why anxiety has been a constant companion.
This hope, though, is not isolated. Nothing in life works in isolation. Everything is interconnected. When I’m down, everything suffers. Conversations become harder, self-doubt grows louder, and even running—my escape—feels like a burden. But when I’m high, when hope is alive, everything feels lighter. That interconnectedness is both grounding and overwhelming. It’s like a web where every strand vibrates with the slightest movement.
One of the hardest parts of my journey has been the fear of being seen. Not physically, but emotionally. I’ve built a persona—strong, open, compassionate—but I’m not sure if that’s who people see. A colleague once told me I seem intimidating, and it shook me. Intimidating? That’s not who I want to be. But maybe it’s the mask I wear to protect the vulnerable parts of me. The parts that are still fighting against the patriarchal values I grew up with, values that told me to suppress, to conform, to be rigid.
These are still small steps. The one where I have failed previously. But, what’s wrong in taking another chance when there is nothing left to lose? It’s scary every time, but it’s possible. Personal growth as ‘not normal’, I’ve realized, is like playing chess. Every move reveals new challenges, and the board changes with each step. It’s exhausting, but it’s also life.
I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’m learning to live in the questions. Maybe growth isn’t about finding the final answer but about continuing to ask, to move, to try.
