Coming to My Senses

I grew up feeling like my brain type was a curse. Sometimes I still feel that way. I received my diagnosis officially in May of 2022, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I was only able to name anxiety and OCD for the first time early in college, when I was also severely depressed. I remember first experiencing more challenging symptoms as early as 10 years old. I struggled with sleep in high school, and my sense of self-worth into my early twenties. No one talked about mental health in school, and the Internet felt like one of the few spaces to connect with others experiencing the same thoughts and feelings. There seemed to be so little information on OCD in 2010. Even today, 1 in 3 people with OCD don’t respond to first-line treatment options, which typically come with a plethora of dreadful side effects. 

The last year has felt especially emotionally taxing between my grandmother’s dementia diagnosis, unwavering war and violence around the world, the perils of romance in the dopamine driven dating-app era, new and invigorating professional endeavors, and ever-challenging family dynamics as an adult… It’s also been refreshingly hopeful; blossoming friendships, rekindled relationships, adventures I thought I’d only dream of as a kid, business innovation beyond beliefs, deepening my sense of identity, and immense relief from OCD. 

Over the last 5 years, I’ve been learning about and taking a conscious effort to work on my emotional well-being. This last year, I’ve been able to experience a state of relief from anxiety that still has me in disbelief. I thought a life this beautiful and vividly engaging might be something I could only imagine. There are a number of things I must remain aware of and stay committed to; eating nourishing, real food, giving my body the rest it needs, staying active, being in nature, spending time with friends and family, reading, writing, and learning, and permission to embrace stillness. If I’m feeling particularly anxious, chances are that one of those things is out of balance, and I usually know what it is. It’s been on my mind, and I just haven’t been giving it the attention it needs. 

What surprised me this year was what felt like a missing piece. Emotional suppression was the real culprit of the heightening wave of anxiety. I wasn’t creating space to experience and explore more challenging emotions: sadness, anger, and fear. I noticed how uncomfortable and confused I’d become when these emotions would arise. My reaction was to distract myself by escaping them in some way, whether through doom scrolling on social media, exercising with an enraged intensity, or some other avoidance behavior. This year I gave myself permission to feel. Permission to cry when I felt sad, afraid, or angry at the state of the world, in despair over the moments of pain, confusion, and fear my grandparents experienced, or in grief over witnessing the deterioration of my previous partner’s emotional well-being. That missing piece was leaning into experiencing uncomfortable emotions. It was also a renewed commitment to exploring and practicing spirituality. 

A breaking point in my emotional well-being journey was in August. I was backpacking in Aspen solo on a loop I’d dreamt of before moving to Colorado: Four Pass Loop. Four mountain passes, about 29 miles, and 8,000 feet of vertical elevation gain. I started around 3:30pm on a Friday and learned my lesson about fear. I committed to go at a much slower pace than I usually do and pay close attention to how my body and mind were feeling. I passed by North Maroon Peak and emerged from a section of forest into a meadow pregnant with what could only be millions of wildflowers: magenta Indian paintbrush, bluesy Colorado columbine, soft lilac and sunny yellow daisies. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. 

As I meandered through the meadow, I felt a sense of bliss. I felt immense gratitude for my body to be able to climb a mountain pass and witness the breathtaking valley below. I strapped my pack a bit tighter, relaced my shoes, and carefully ran down the pass in my favorite trail runners. I darted down switchbacks into the sound of singing birds and frolicking deer. I hopped over a stream, making my way into another section of dense evergreen forest. Suddenly, my bliss had dissipated, and I was overwhelmed with fear. I had been writing down my thoughts as I observed them, and I was confused why I seemed to be drowning in fear out of nowhere. I typed another note in my phone about what thoughts were coming up for me, but they didn’t seem to match the immense fear that consumed me in that moment. I saw a narrow trail to the left, and had decided earlier to stop for every viewpoint and take my time, being careful to be present and enjoy where I am. After a few steps down the trail, I saw a bare rodent skull, about the size of my fist. Between the overwhelming fear and the skull, I was feeling some spooky energy in this area. I turned around and made my way further down the trail. 

As I rounded another switchback through the dusty red rock, I heard a sound from above the cliff within the evergreens I had just come from. It was a sound I was familiar with; a chirp, almost like a bird, but it was so loud, it was impossible to have been a small animal. Maybe a large rodent? Do moose make some weird bird sound? I heard it a few more times, looking into the trees where it was coming from, but I couldn’t see anything. Oh well. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be moving. I continued down the trail. The sun was setting, and the clouds became a rosy baby pink as light began dancing on the Maroon Bells. I smiled and stood in awe of the raw beauty of the backcountry. As the sun’s dance on the mountains was ending, I continued down the trail to set up camp. 

Several days later, I couldn’t help but think about the chirping sound coming from the trees. I went on Youtube and listened to a variety of moose sounds; nothing like it. I made my way to a playlist of mountain lion sounds, and after a few of the typical hisses and screams, I finally heard it. It was a mountain lion in the trees, watching me easily just 20 feet away. I couldn’t help but feel like the immense fear that consumed me at that moment was my instincts kicking in. I couldn’t see the cat, but I felt it watching me. 

After 29 miles and four mountain passes, I finally woke up to an abundant truth: pain is information. All of our emotions are valid and need space to be explored and experienced. Emotions are a way of guiding us to tend to what is weighing on us. I still feel anxious, almost daily, but I’ve accepted that it’s part of the human experience. When it arises, it does so to tell me something: that I need more rest, that I need to prioritize my nutrition, that I need to be outside and move my body, that I need to spend time in person with my community, or that I need to slow down and give myself permission to feel.