By Sade Snowden-Akintunde

“Have you ever considered anxiety medication?” A close friend asked me in the middle of one of our routine phone conversations. “I’ve been researching Lexapro for my brother and I feel like you deal with a lot of the same symptoms that he does.”

To be completely honest, the answer was no. I’d never fully accepted that I suffered from anxiety, let alone thought of viable solutions for treating it beyond herbal supplements, traditional therapy, and meditation. Having Black-American ancestry on my mom’s side and Nigerian ancestry on my dad’s, I don’t think any of us fully trusted Western medicine enough to consider mental health medication. However, when I thought about it, I realized that every single person in my family has dealt with at least some form of anxiety that they were unable to identify. Because we lacked the proper language to identify what was happening, we’d often misnomer our symptoms and place blame on ourselves.

My dad called it being “lazy” whenever he was working and suddenly couldn’t focus. My mom referred to my anxiety as me being “too sensitive.” 

“You’ve been like that your entire life; it’s like I’m always walking on eggshells with you,” she’d say whenever I’d have a visceral reaction to even the slightest of her criticism. 

It got worse when I left home and moved to New York for college. The energy that initially felt exciting transformed into a persistent trigger for me. Having been a star student my entire life, I randomly found myself unable to concentrate in the middle of class and while doing homework. When this happened, my chest would tighten as my breaths would get shorter and more shallow. I’d later realize that these were called anxiety attacks, and my grades suffered as a result of having them so often. I learned to cope through self-isolation (often upsetting friends and family by accident) and finished school though, grateful for graduating with a decent-paying job despite struggling for four years. 

Excited for an opportunity to start over, I was sure that working full-time would be different. Unfortunately, my anxiety crept in almost immediately. This time, it wasn’t when I was doing work or trying to be productive—I oddly found peace and solace in those moments— but when I was doing anything social. Participating in meetings, attending happy hours, sending emails, you name it. 

On the outside, I was calm, cool, and collected— only those close to me were aware that something was off. On the inside, I’d freeze and start to overthink, scared of saying the wrong thing or of accidentally offending someone. Anytime I made a mistake, I’d feel like it was the end of the world. At my worst, I’d fixate on the smallest of issues and couldn’t focus on anything else for days, sometimes even weeks. Sometimes I’d have full blown panic attacks. Other times I’d completely detach from my emotions altogether. I overcompensated by working my ass off, but with every new job, promotion, recognition, and accolade, my anxiety only seemed to worsen. After a very painful breakup, transitioning from living with my ex-partner to living on my own, and experiencing the death of a close friend, I couldn’t ignore or work through it anymore. It was like I had completely lost my ability to function. 

During that phone call, the realization hit me. “Sade, you’ve had anxiety this entire time.” Whoa. What? That’s what this is? I mentioned the idea of starting medication to my parents and they tried to talk me out of it. 

“I think you should try yoga instead,” my dad suggested. 

The reality is that I’d been in and out of therapy, yoga, and various exercise classes for years, and although it did help, the nature and intensity of my work directly impacted my ability to remain consistent when my anxiety was at its worst. 

“Have you tried ashwagandha? I’ve been taking it daily and it’s really helped me,” my mom suggested. I’d tried herbal supplements too. Although my parents meant well, I knew that their suggestions weren’t enough. 

I took a leap of faith and decided to try the medication paired with weekly cognitive therapy sessions. Medication helped me to see my anxiety more clearly, while therapy taught me to embrace it, humanize it, and give it a name— let’s call her Lisa (not for any particular reason, but because that’s the first one to come to mind). She’s just all of my unhealed wounds and limiting beliefs coming to the surface and ironically enough, she’s here to keep me safe. The more I hear her out, the calmer and less reactive she gets. In retrospect, she’s been a gift this entire time, here to catalyze my healing and ability to reach my highest potential. 

While I still have tough days, I do notice a huge shift in my overall quality of life. I’m back to feeling productive and social again. I’m finally able to sit still and take a deep breath when I feel my chest tightening. I’ve gone from only being able to meditate for five minutes to twenty. I’m more forgiving of myself when my feelings start to consume me and am able to take responsibility for my mistakes more quickly as a result. I find myself getting better at identifying my triggers and make sure to self-soothe and/or disengage when I need to. 

In short, medication hasn’t cured my anxiety, but it has given me a fighting chance at managing it. And for that, I’m forever grateful.