Hi, I’m Taylor (@health_anxiety on instagram)
Let’s rewind to 2014.
If you had asked me back then if life could get any better, I would’ve said, “No way.” I had it all—or so it looked. I was a full-time college student, had amazing friends, a loving boyfriend, a close family, and I was doing great in school. From the outside, it was bliss.
But that “perfect” life? It was quietly destroying me.
I was chasing perfection in every corner of my life. I had a 4.0 GPA and was prescribed Vyvanse and Adderall so I could study harder, longer, and maintain the image. I was constantly complimented on my body, but no one saw how little I ate or the hours I spent running just to keep that praise coming.
Did I think I had disordered eating? No. Did I? Yes.
I didn’t realize the damage I was doing to my body and mind. I was so caught up in being “the best” that I couldn’t see the slow unraveling beneath the surface.
Then it hit me.
I was getting ready for my friend’s 21st birthday. Something didn’t feel right, but I ignored it, got dressed, and went out like nothing was wrong.
That night, I had my first panic attack.
I had no idea what was happening. My heart raced, my chest tightened, and all I could think was, Am I dying?
I kept it to myself. I sat in my room alone, scared and confused. The next morning, I sat on my balcony thinking, What’s wrong with me? I felt like I had just been handed a terminal diagnosis—but no one knew.
That night I told my boyfriend. He didn’t get it. “You’ll be alright,” he said. (How many of us have heard that one before?) But I wasn’t alright.
That one moment was the beginning of a domino effect that would flip my life upside down.
I convinced myself it had to be the medication. I panicked and quit cold turkey.
But then the panic came back—without the meds.
That’s when I really lost it. If it wasn’t the Adderall, then what was it? My brain told me I was dying. I couldn’t stop spiraling.
I barely slept. I’d call my mom at 1am, sobbing, telling her something was wrong. I made my boyfriend come over just to check on me. I started avoiding everything. Skipping class. My grades dropped. I lost friends. I couldn’t even sit through a lecture without sweating and feeling like I’d pass out.
I went from being an independent woman to someone who couldn’t go a day without reassurance.
I started going home more. My safe place became my parents. But over time, even they grew tired. They didn’t understand. They were exhausted by my “what ifs” and my constant fear of dying.
And again, I don’t blame them. It’s hard to understand how someone who looks physically healthy can feel like they’re dying every single day.
I thought this was rock bottom.
I couldn’t even run anymore. All the miles I used to do? Gone. I could barely walk down a flight of stairs. I was in and out of doctor’s offices, urgent cares, and ERs. I put stress on my family. They fought more. I was becoming “too much.”
But the worst part was the loneliness. No one truly understood what I was going through—not even the people closest to me.
And then came the day.
One of the hardest days of my life. I was moving back to college for senior year, and my boyfriend surprised me with concert tickets. I was nervous but went anyway. I even had fun—panic on the side, of course—but I was proud of myself for trying.
The next day was his birthday, and I’ll never forget it.
I suddenly felt dizzy. Like I was walking on a cruise ship that wouldn’t stop rocking. I tried to shake it off. I didn’t want to ruin the day. We had dinner plans with his family.
I got dressed, smiling through the panic. But it wouldn’t go away. I felt nauseous. I excused myself to the bathroom, walked down the hallway like I was walking through fog. Dizzy. Detached. Scared.
I called my dad from the hallway. “I’m not okay. Something’s wrong. I think I’m dying.” He got angry. “Why are you doing this again?”
They were done. Everyone was just... done.
I went back to the table and whispered to my boyfriend, “We have to go. I need the ER.”
He was upset. It was his birthday. I ruined his dinner. And looking back—I get it. But at the time, I was terrified.
At the ER, I begged them to check my brain. I was sure I had a tumor, a stroke, something. I got a CT scan. I laid in that hospital bed shivering, picturing the worst. The doctor came in, said everything was fine.
But I didn’t feel fine.
I felt numb. We left the hospital, and I hoped the reassurance would help. It didn’t.
The next day, the dizziness was still there. I drove myself back to the ER in tears. Everyone around me was frustrated. My dad told me not to go in, but I didn’t care—I was desperate. Eventually, my boyfriend had to drive me five hours home and then back to school the same day.
No one knew how to help me anymore. I spent a week lying in bed, dizzy and depressed, convinced something was horribly wrong. I was Googling symptoms 24/7. I felt like a lost cause.
This was rock bottom.
That was the final straw—for everyone. I thought: This is my life now. It’s over.
But somehow… it wasn’t.
My perfect life fell apart.
And in a strange way, that was the beginning of something new. I went on a journey of self discovery, healing and found a plan for myself.
Today, I am panic attack free.
I survived panic disorder.
I lived through crippling health anxiety.
I fought my way through agoraphobia.
And I made it out.
Let me be clear: it didn’t get better overnight. It got worse before it got better. I had to dig deep. I had to ask for help. And most importantly—I turned to God.
I told Him: I trust You. Lead me. And slowly, He did.
Now I use my story to help others find light in the darkness. I used to be ashamed of my past. Now I know that my story might be someone else’s lifeline.
If you’re struggling right now, please know this:
You are not alone.
You are not broken.
You are not “too much.”
Your real people will love you through the hard stuff.
Anxiety taught me a lot. It taught me that perfection is an illusion. That today is a gift. That I could spend my time overthinking every little thing… or I could choose to be gentle with myself, flaws and all.
And please—don’t fall for the lie of social media. It’s not real life. Everyone’s struggling with something. Everyone’s fighting a battle you can’t see.
Imagine a platform where people shared real life—messy, honest, imperfect. I’d be the first to sign up.
Until then, I’ll be real here. With you.
So please—don’t give up.
You’re strong as hell.
And I’m so proud of you.
I’m always here. And I get it.