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“Anxiety is a response to a nervous system that learned early on it had to protect itself.” ~Dr. Hilary Jacobs Hendel
Anxiety shaped much of my life—how I showed up, how I held myself back, and how I connected with others. For years, I didn’t even know what it was. I just knew the pounding heart, the tight chest, the trembling hands. I knew the shame that followed every “failure,” big or small, and the fear I would never be enough.
For a long time, I thought I was the problem. But anxiety isn’t a moral failing. It’s a part of me that learned to survive in environments where my emotional needs weren’t met, where fear and shame felt louder than safety.
Where It Started
The roots of my anxiety began in childhood.
I was in first grade when I brought home my school report card and saw that I ranked seventh in my class. At that age, I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I was just excited to tell my dad.
When he came to pick me up, I smiled and shared the news innocently. Instead of a hug or encouragement, his eyes glared at me. His sharp, aggressive tone cut through me as he shouted, “It’s bad!”
Looking back, I can see his reaction came from fear—that my performance might limit my future and that shaming me would push me to improve. But as a child, I couldn’t see that. I felt shocked and humiliated. My small body trembled, and my younger brain concluded:
“I’m only worthy of love if I perform better.”
The next semester, I ranked third. My dad bragged about it to everyone, and I felt brief relief. But the fear returned quickly:
“What if I can’t keep this up?”
That was the beginning of a belief that no matter how much I achieved, I was never “enough.”
This pattern followed me for decades, surfacing in unexpected places. As an adult, I would freeze with anxiety at gas stations, trembling as I pushed my motorbike forward even when no one was rushing me.
Eventually, I connected it to another childhood memory: my dad shouting at me to move faster in line at a gas station, his glare and sharp tone burning into me again. When processing this as an adult, I realized he had a good intention—to move things along for the other people waiting. But before I began my healing process, my nervous system was wired to react to the present as if I were reliving the past.
Even years later, the anxiety lived on in my body, and I didn’t know how to process it.
The Breaking Point
I carried this unprocessed anxiety into adulthood. When I was five weeks pregnant, my partner was in a tragic accident that left him in a coma for two weeks before he passed away. Suddenly, I was alone, grieving, and without money to survive.
I didn’t have the privilege of avoidance anymore. Grief, financial instability, and the responsibility of carrying a child forced me to face emotions I had buried for years.
This was when I learned the practices that helped me stop spiraling and regain my composure.
10 Tips That Help Me Prevent and Manage Anxiety
Important note: These tips are not a substitute for therapy, medication, or professional diagnosis. They are complementary practices to help restore balance and create a sense of safety in the body.
1. The gratitude shift—turn anxiety into information.
Instead of berating the intense sensations anxiety brings, I now try meeting it with gratitude. Anxiety is my body’s built-in alarm system.
When I feel it rising, I say, “Hi, anxiety. I see you doing your job. Thank you for showing up.”
Then I ask:
What is this sensation trying to tell me?
Where is this coming from in my history?
What action can I take now to feel safer and more supported?
This small act of acknowledgment makes space to feel more in control and invites curiosity instead of fear.
2. Slow down and simplify your life.
Too many distractions can block memories and emotions from surfacing. Simplifying my life gave me mental space for self-awareness.
I released unnecessary obligations, overpacked schedules, and numbing habits like endless scrolling. When I slowed down, I could finally hear myself and recognize what was driving my anxiety.
3. Trace the roots through quiet observation (and fasting).
Closing my eyes and observing the first persistent memories that surface often reveals the root of anxiety.
When I couldn’t afford therapy, I used intentional fasting to access clarity. (If you decide to give this a try, I recommend consulting with your doctor first. This is my personal spiritual practice, not a universal recommendation.) I started slowly with:
- A twelve-hour fruit and vegetable fast, then
- A twelve-hour water fast, then
- A full-day fast (6 a.m. to 6 p.m.)
Each time hunger arose, I named my intention out loud through prayer or journaling: “Please show me the root cause of this anxiety and how to release it.”
Fasting, for me, was a deliberate way to quiet external noise so buried memories and insights could surface.
4. Catch the first emotion—shock.
My body often stores layers of pain, and shock is usually the first overwhelming emotion. If I can name it quickly, I can interrupt the spiral.
For example, when I was feeling overwhelmed as a mother, I’d sometimes snap at my daughter. I’d get frustrated and angry with myself, but after fasting, the memory of my parents snapping at me came up quite vividly.
Remembering this, I allowed myself to see, acknowledge, experience, and accept how painful and shocking it was for me to be treated that way.
5. Write in detail what shocked you (and other emotions).
After naming shock, I write the exact details of what triggered it: the sudden glare, the change in tone, the clenched jaw, the slammed door.
Then I name the other emotions as honestly as possible: fear, humiliation, sadness, anger, or betrayal—whatever is true in that moment.
Being radically honest in this process helps me release the experiences that I previously stored as trauma.
6. Grieve the losses.
Once I release the shock, I let myself grieve. I cry for the safety, compassion, and respect I needed but didn’t receive.
Sometimes I use music to amplify the sadness so it can move through me. This isn’t weakness—it’s how the body processes pain instead of storing it.
7. Name the unmet needs.
Grief opens the door to understanding my needs.
“When I was shouted at by my dad after making mistakes, I felt unsafe and ashamed. My need for emotional security was violated.”
“When I was only praised for achievements, I felt unseen. My need for consistent acceptance was neglected.”
Naming needs clarifies what’s important so I can ask for it clearly and assertively as an adult. It’s empowering to name the hurt and see how it helps me understand my emotional needs better.
8. See the context—compassion for your parents’ limitations.
Fasting and becoming a mother helped me understand the hardship my parents faced. Parenting a neurodivergent child with limited resources, little support, and financial stress is overwhelming.
This doesn’t excuse the harm, but it helps me hold two truths:
- Their actions hurt me.
- They were also struggling humans who lacked the tools to parent better.
This perspective softens resentment and breaks cycles.
9. Write down the worst-case scenarios.
While processing the past experiences that have contributed to my anxiety can help decrease anxious feelings in the present, it also helps to challenge how I think about the future.
When I spiral, my brain floods me with worst-case scenarios. Positive thinking never helped—it only deepened my fear.
Instead, I confront the fears by writing down every possible worst-case outcome, even the most extreme. I’ve lived through homelessness, earthquakes, and tragic losses. Pretending they couldn’t happen again didn’t work.
By naming them, I strip them of their power.
10. Prepare intuitive actions and identify help.
After writing the worst cases, I ask:
What is the first intuitive action I can take to prevent or reduce the impact?
Who is the first person I can contact for help? Who else could I reach out to?
Writing these down gives me agency. It tells my nervous system, “I’m not helpless. There are things I can do and people I can ask for help.”
—
Anxiety is a part of me. Experiencing the spiral because I didn’t know how to name, process, and communicate it sucks.
I’m still a work in progress when it comes to maintaining composure consistently, but I feel empowered knowing that I’m mastering emotional intelligence—skills I can pass down to my child.
Healing is not linear, and some steps will feel harder than others. But with consistency, these practices can help you restore a sense of safety, reclaim your agency, and soften the belief that you must always be on high alert.
About Sri Purna Widari
Sri Purna Widari is a writer, mother, and advocate for social justice relevant to single/solo motherhood, special needs children, environmental issue and trauma repatterning. She shares practical tools for navigating anxiety and bereavement. Connect with her on Instagram here.
