I was sixteen when everything started to feel like it was closing in on me. It wasn’t sudden. It was slow, quiet, and almost unnoticeable at first—like the dimming of a light I didn’t realize was fading. I had always been the kind of student who strived for excellence, who showed up on time, tried to please everyone, and didn’t want to disappoint. But somewhere along the way, the pressure became too much.
What began as restlessness turned into sleepless nights. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts running circles around things I hadn’t done, things I might fail at, things I had no control over. My chest would tighten for no reason. My heartbeat would accelerate during the most mundane tasks. I remember once sitting in a classroom, unable to focus on anything except the sound of my own breathing—loud, shallow, panicked. I felt like I was drowning in a place where everyone else seemed to breathe just fine.
I didn’t know how to talk about it. I didn’t even have the words for what I was feeling. I just knew I wasn’t okay.
There were moments I felt incredibly vulnerable—like I was breaking apart from the inside but had to keep a calm face on the outside. That dissonance drained me. I started isolating myself, missing social gatherings, withdrawing even from people I loved. I felt ashamed, as if I was failing not just academically, but as a person.
It was my family who first noticed the change. At first, I resisted their concern—I told them I was just tired, that I was fine. But they didn’t stop showing up. My mother would sit with me in silence, just letting me be. My father started sharing stories of his own moments of struggle, reminding me that pain was part of being human, not something to hide. It was their quiet, unwavering presence that made me feel safe enough to open up.
They gently encouraged me to seek therapy. I was hesitant. I thought it was something people did when things got really bad—worse than what I was going through. But eventually, I agreed.
Therapy was my turning point.
For the first time, I had a space where I could unpack my feelings without judgment. My therapist helped me identify the patterns of thought that kept me trapped, the unrealistic expectations I placed on myself, and the emotional wounds I had never quite acknowledged. Week by week, I started to feel less overwhelmed. I learned to breathe, to ground myself, to speak to myself with the same compassion I offered others.
It wasn’t an instant transformation, but it was a steady, honest journey toward healing.
Somewhere along the way, something shifted. I stopped just trying to escape what I was feeling and started to understand it. That’s when I realized—this is what I want to do. I wanted to understand the human mind, not just for myself, but to help others who felt as lost and overwhelmed as I once did.
Psychology wasn’t just a subject anymore—it was a calling. The more I read, the more I learned, the more I saw myself and others with clarity and empathy. I wanted to create the kind of safe space for others that had been given to me in therapy.
Looking back, I wouldn’t wish that period of anxiety and stress on anyone—but I also wouldn’t erase it from my life. It taught me resilience. It taught me vulnerability isn’t weakness. And it gave me the purpose I carry with me today!
– Ishita Gupta, 23, Lucknow