Dear My Anxiety,

I spend most nights watching you tango with my brain as if it was the love of your life. Other nights I watch as you aggressively use my stomach as a punching bag, each hit creating a knot in my gut. So often I hear you referred to as “normal.” However, I can’t accept that statement, because those people have obviously never met you. You seem to know the exact moment when I am the most vulnerable, and no matter how easy it is to hide that vulnerability from everyone else, you see it every single time.

Sometimes when I feel you latch on to me late at night, I think to myself, “tonight is the night I beat you once and for all,” but I never seem to win… ever. You somehow disguise yourself as “stress” and “nerves.”

But I know what you are, and I have some bad news for you. See, you’re strong, stronger than I’ll ever be, but you will never be the strongest. You will never be the smartest, or even the biggest. You can mess with my thoughts, and you can beat me until I’m sick, but you will not, and cannot take away what the most gracious heavenly Father has given to me. You can’t take what has been implanted inside the very organ that makes me warm. The organ that pierces your ears every time it beats, reminding you that I won’t give in. My heart was claimed long before you came along, and it shall not be touched. See, when I’m afraid, Jesus gives me bravery. When I am weak, he gives me strength. My physical body, the one that you have tried to take over will soon be buried, but my spirit will be with him, not you. I am forever in debt to him for helping me fight you every night.

So, I’m writing you this letter to let you know that I am no longer interested in allowing you to reside within me. Turns out, I don’t need you around anymore.

I’m asking you to leave, tonight.