Anxiety & Yearbook

During the Spring of 2022, I sat on my couch, a bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of me. Sunk into the cushions, I swished my second glass in my hand and wondered why I felt this way.

I had just put my eighteen-month old to bed and it had gone relatively smooth. Yet, it felt like I had a clock ticking in my chest, rattling my ribcage with every passing second, like the minute hand could not move fast enough or I would scream. My husband was at work in a city away, so it was just me and my cherub baby, my joyous little girl who was so happy to play with her mama and read books. But the clock ticked inside me.

What is wrong with me? I couldn't place the pressure, so I poured myself another glass of wine and thought I was being dramatic.

A few weeks later, Florence and the Machine's new album, Dance Fever launched and I found myself with tears streaming down my face when listening to the song "Free."

I knew the feeling Florence Welch described. I got picked up and put down every single day, several times a day. I'd spent an hour every week in a counselor's office trying to root it out, so I could be a normal human. It was exhausting and unfair. I had this little girl at home that I could never just be in the moment with and it was truly all I wanted.

As weird as it sounds, listening to Florence's song prompted me to make another appointment with a general practitioner and talk about medication to treat my anxiety. I wasn't the only one. If my favorite musician could describe my anxiety so well and bring me to tears on repeat, then surely I could figure out a way to exist. After all, unlike her, I didn't need the edge for my art. I needed the edge to leave me be so I could be a mom.

That phone call changed my life. While initially I was put on medication that wasn't a fit, I didn't stop and the swap resulted in me taking back my life. No longer were every day tasks a struggle, there was no more weight on my chest, or inability to exist in moments with my little girl. I could simply enjoy her presence without feeling like I wanted to jump out of my skin.

Four months after starting the medication, I became sober and have kept up my sobriety for almost three years now. I was no longer chained to self-medicating and the up and down it created. Every day became an experience, a place to root myself into instead of trying to escape. And ultimately, it is why I was able to take on the yearbook while expecting my second child -- I could manage multiple things without cracking under the weight of my internal voice.

This conversation belongs in this space because my anxiety is part of who I am. Taking medication didn't eradicate it completely. It just made it possible for me to co-exist with it and take the sudden repetitive thoughts in stride instead of wanting to run away. Taking medication allowed me to make room for more positive self-thoughts and finally, after years and years, push out my imposter syndrome.

I was a yearbook advisor at a previous school for two years and I hated it. Why? Because I could not get myself together and was incapable of finding joy in what I was doing when my internal dialogue was so judgmental and mean. Now, in the same role, at a different school. I am able to approach it and myself with kindness and grace.

Often times, our creative minded students share similar struggles. There is a reason Florence was able to reach me when many others couldn't. It is so important in our yearbook classrooms to not only make sure we are able to address our own mental health through hard, honest conversations and time away from the book, but also create an atmosphere where students feel safe enough to share their own struggle. If I can't show myself grace and handle my emotions, then how in the world can I ask students to do the same?

We are all imperfect and messy creatures. But if we can figure out how to make ourselves feel okay in our existence, then we have done the hard part and maybe, if we're lucky, we can impress upon our students that it's cool to not struggle.

Kind regards,