Dear Anxiety, You Don’t Control Me Anymore

This is a letter to anxiety, one you may dream of writing, one you are not ready to but reading it, but please read it as reminder you are in control, even of those days you do not think you are. Your letter to anxiety may come at any time next week, next year but remember you are stronger than you know and I am here - The Soul Alignment Guide is here for you, I am your cheerleader, your strength when you need it.

Dear Anxiety,

We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we? You showed up quietly at first, a quickened heartbeat, a shaky breath, that whisper of “what if” that wrapped itself around my thoughts. I didn’t even know your name back then. I just thought I was flawed. Broken. Too sensitive for the world.

You grew louder as I grew older. You made your home in my body behind my ribs, in the back of my throat, sitting heavy in my stomach. You convinced me that safety lived in control, that perfection could protect me, that calm was something I had to earn.

But I see you differently now. You are not the enemy I once thought you were. You were never here to destroy me,  you were trying to keep me safe. You were the alarm that sounded every time life felt uncertain, every time my heart feared disappointment or rejection. You were the part of me that wanted to prepare for every outcome, to protect me from every fall.

But here’s the truth, Anxiety, your protection became my prison.

You Took Too Much Space. You followed me into every conversation, every relationship, every dream. You made me second-guess myself before I spoke, question whether I was liked, and hold back from things I deeply wanted. You told me that danger was everywhere,  in other people’s opinions, in making mistakes, in being seen.

You convinced me that overthinking was safety. That worrying was control. That being alert meant being prepared.

But all it did was keep me tired, endlessly tired. Because no matter how much I prepared, I was never really living. I was surviving.

You made my body forget what peace felt like. You made my breath shallow, my nights restless, and my mind loud.

I tried to silence you. I fought you, feared you, ran from you but that only made you stronger.

The Day I Started Listening One day, I stopped fighting.

I sat still long enough to hear what you were really saying.

Beneath the chaos, there was fear. Beneath the fear, there was pain. Beneath the pain, there was a story, the story of a little girl who learned that the world wasn’t always safe, that love could leave, that chaos could arrive without warning.

You weren’t the cause of my suffering. You were the signal. The messenger. The alarm calling out for safety that I didn’t yet know how to create.

When I stopped trying to get rid of you and started listening to you, something shifted.

I began to realise that you don’t control me,  you never did. You only grow louder when I ignore what needs to be felt, when I forget to breathe, when I try to carry too much.

You Helped Me Find Myself

Strangely, you’ve been one of my greatest teachers.

You taught me the language of my body how to recognise the signs before they turn into storms. You taught me that boundaries aren’t selfish; they’re sacred. You taught me that peace doesn’t come from perfection, it comes from presence. You taught me that control is not the same as safety. Because real safety isn’t about managing everything outside of me, it’s about trusting what’s inside of me.

You showed me where I was holding fear in my chest, where I was gripping too tightly to the past, where I was trying to prove instead of just be.

And slowly, I started to meet you with curiosity instead of criticism.

I Don’t Need You to Leave, I Need You to Soften

I used to wish you would disappear. I thought healing meant silence that freedom would arrive when you were gone.

But I’ve learned that I don’t need to destroy you to find peace.

I just need to soothe you. To remind you that we are safe now. That the things that once threatened us are no longer here.

You can rest now.

You don’t need to sound the alarm anymore. I’ve got this.

You can quiet down because I’m finally listening to my body, nourishing my nervous system, choosing rest instead of punishment. I am no longer running from discomfort, I am learning to sit with it.

You can soften, because I am no longer at war with myself. You Don’t Define Me

For years, I called you my anxiety. As if you belonged to me as if you were part of my identity.

But I see now that you are just one of many emotions that move through me. You are temporary. You visit when I am tired, when I am stretched, when I am disconnected from myself. But you are not who I am. I am not anxious,  I am human. I am a woman who feels deeply, who notices everything, who carries empathy like a second skin. I am not broken because I feel fear; I am brave because I continue anyway.You may visit again, but I will meet you differently now. I will breathe deeper, move slower, and speak to myself with more love than ever before.

You are a reminder,  not a ruler.

Thank You for What You’ve Taught Me

Thank you for showing me where I was abandoning myself.

Thank you for teaching me that I can’t think my way to peace — I have to feel it.

Thank you for helping me realise that healing is not the absence of discomfort, but the presence of compassion.

You made me stop pretending.

You made me face my truth.

You made me begin again.

So, while I no longer let you control me, I honour the role you played in my becoming.

A New Relationship

We will always know each other, you and I but the power dynamic has changed.

You are no longer the voice that dictates my choices. You are a whisper that reminds me to slow down.

When you show up, I will greet you with awareness instead of anger. I will check in with my body. I will ask myself what I need. I will let the feeling move through me instead of fighting it.

And then, I will carry on grounded, clear, present.

Because I am not your victim anymore.

I am my own safe place.

Goodbye But Not Really

I won’t say goodbye, because pretending you’ll never return would be another form of denial.

But I will say this: you no longer get to drive. You can sit in the passenger seat if you must, but I’m the one holding the wheel now. I’m the one choosing where we go, how we feel, and what we believe.

You no longer define my identity. You no longer control my story.

You can rest.

And I can finally breathe.

With love,

Me.