I am an actress and a singer. When I perform- the music swells, the lights hit my face, and my feet cross the boards of the stage that have literally and figuratively been my foundation- I have to trust myself. Voice, body, and mind, my performance is dependent upon every element of my being working together to take what I’ve learned and rehearsed and internalized and synthesize them into a unique and immediate delivery. This does not particularly scare me.

I am happy to say I don’t have what most would call “stage fright.” I have been singing since before I can remember and have built up a fairly easy habit of trusting myself to follow through on everything I’ve learned and practiced. Theater and music are the greatest joys of my life, and I’m very grateful that I haven’t been faced with fears that would prevent me from following those passions.

But tell me my parents are driving across town or ask me to go out late at night and my knees begin to weaken, my heart racing. Show up 10 minutes late to pick me up and you may find me wiping away tears. Leave my phone call unanswered and I will pick up the next time with shaking hands. I am not childish, I am not broken, I am not wrong. I am anxious.

It is hard and it is strange when your greatest passions and feelings seem completely incongruous. I can get onstage in front of hundreds of people and feel completely at home, but something as simple as a car ride or unanswered text can leave me a wreck for hours. Once, when I was younger, my Girl Scout troop went up in small airplanes to learn about piloting. Although I was the one who would be flying hundreds of feet above the ground in a tiny aircraft, I told my mother, who was probably only driving to the store, “Don’t die today.”

My strongest calling, to sing, act, to bare my soul in front of an audience, requires me to trust myself and stand firmly on my own two feet. But the impulses and fears that are just as deeply ingrained in me exist only to lie to me. I write this not for pity, but for visibility- for myself and all the people who are trying to learn to stop believing their illness and start believing in themselves. We are here, we are enough, and we deserve to be heard.

For me, my greatest anxiety is often correlated with my lowest self-esteem. I would consider myself a fairly confident person in many ways, but when worry overtakes me and the future seems blurry at best, doubting myself comes much more naturally. I must be broken or wholly unprepared for life if the smallest events can control my mind so overwhelmingly. I must be unfit to achieve my greatest dreams if I am terrified at the prospect of leaving home for just a few days. I must not be able to live a normal life because I am not normal.

It is far, far too easy for a young person with anxiety to feel this way and to think it all their fault. Up until very recently, I refused to consider pursuing theater, my greatest passion, my dearest love, because I thought, I’m not strong enough. No one deserves to feel that way. So I ask you, don’t pity me. Listen to me. Hear me now. Read these words and know this- your normal is not everyone else’s normal. That is perfectly OK, and it is not your fault that the stories that most often get told do not reflect that.

I cannot think of a single character that I found as a child in a book, movie, or television show who reflected my anxiety disorder. Thus, I cannot think of a single example of someone who was told that their worries were valid, that they were enough, that they did not have to get lost in their own mind. I cannot think of one example that taught me or anyone else that, while anxiety may be a life sentence, it is not a death sentence. Where are the examples? Where are the strong women with worries? Where are the superheroes with shaking hands? Where are the adventurers with anxiety? And what would my life be like if they had existed?

Even when we are watching a movie or reading a book about the most fantastical creatures or the most unrealistic scenarios, we internalize the realities of the characters we meet into “normal.” It is time to reinvent what kind of lives we present to each other and see as acceptable, strong, creative, and capable. My reality is real. My normal is normal. And I do not deserve to feel any stage fright when I step up to talk about it.

This last part is for anyone reading this who might struggle the way that I have. You are enough. Every part of you is where it needs to be, and your anxiety does not mean that you cannot be who you are. There is no room at the door to happiness where you check your anxiety like a bag. What scares you might not scare other people. But they can’t all sing, or paint, or write like you can, worries and all. Having to get help does not make you childish or weak. Living your life differently than others might does not make it any less full or valid. Having to say “I’m not OK” is sometimes the strongest possible thing to do. In a world where even your own brain can lie to you, you deserve to tell your own truth and know that it is valid. Skies may not always be smooth, and you may have a copilot, but you are flying your own plane. And there will be a safe place waiting for you when you land it.