ENDURING ON EDGE

Anxiety does not knock before it enters.

It settles quietly into the body, teaches it to listen too closely, to brace too often, to expect pain even in silence.

Every day begins the same way, my eyes open, and my body is already awake, already running. My heart beats as if it has received news my mind has not yet read. Morning does not feel like a beginning; it feels like a sentence. Showing up feels like punishment. Breathing feels like preparation for impact.

There was a time when going to that place felt safe. Familiar. Even loved. Now, stepping into it feels life-threatening, as though the walls themselves are watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. My body no longer distinguishes between memory and danger. It reacts first, asks questions later, if it ever does.

My heart pumps violently at the sound of a notification. Emails are no longer messages; they are verdicts. Every vibration carries the weight of blame, every unread line feels like an accusation waiting to unfold. I read between lines that do not exist, search for disappointment before it is even written. I am not afraid of the message; I am afraid of what it might confirm about me.

This is what anxiety does: it turns the future into a courtroom and the present into evidence.

But there is another layer to this fear, one I did not recognize at first. The first time he shouted and banged on doors, I told myself it was a one-time thing. A bad day. A moment of lost control. I chose understanding over alarm, silence over reaction. I did not know then that it would become a pattern.

Every opportunity he gets, he raises his voice. Doors are slammed. Warnings are thrown like weapons. Threats hung in the air long after the noise stopped. And then, almost cruelly, he acts like nothing happened. As if fear has an expiry time. As if our bodies can simply reset because he has chosen to move on.

Watching one of my leaders behave this way has shaken something deep inside me. His voice, his aggression, his unpredictable shifts, it scares me far more than I want to admit. Not only because of what happens in the present, but because of what it drags from my past.

He reminds me of a childhood I tried so hard to outrun. A childhood where voices raised meant danger, where silence was safer than honesty, where survival meant reading moods instead of expressing needs. I did not know his behavior would have such a huge impact on me. I did not know my body would remember before my mind could defend me.

The worst part is that I cannot hide from him. I must see him every day. I must walk into the same space, do my job, and pretend everything is okay. I am expected to be professional while my nervous system is screaming. To function in an office that feels, at the same time, like a battlefield.

His behavior has drained my energy in ways that rest cannot fix. I am struggling to deal with it, not because I lack strength, but because constant fear is exhausting. What hurts the most is the realization that he seems to take pride in it. That power, for him, is displayed through intimidation. That no one seems to see anything wrong with this.

Opinions are used as weapons. Trust becomes a trap. Being called into an office only to be asked what others think of him, whether they like him, whether he is admired, this is not leadership. This is a search for approval disguised as authority. A leader builds safety; he does not demand validation through fear.

I am left navigating a space where speaking feels dangerous and silence feels heavy. Where professionalism requires emotional suppression. Where dignity costs more than it should.

What hurts most is not just fear, but confusion. I ask myself why I am struggling in a place I once gave my best to. Why does my body react as if I am unsafe when, logically, I am not running from fire or war or hunger. And yet, the danger feels real. My nervous system does not lie, it simply remembers too much.

Anxiety is not loud courage’s opposite. It is quiet endurance. It is showing up while your chest is tight and your hands shake. It is smiling while your mind rehearses disaster. It is being present while your body is trying to escape.

I am learning that this is not weakness. It is weariness. It is the result of carrying responsibility without rest, of swallowing emotions to remain professional, of choosing dignity when it would have been easier to fall apart. My body is not betraying me; it is asking to be heard.

Some days, the only victory is breathing through the panic and staying. Some days, it allows me to admit that I am not okay. Healing does not arrive dramatically; it arrives with permission; in the moment I stop fighting my own fear and start listening to it with compassion.

This chapter is not about defeat.

It is about survival.

It is about the courage of waking up when your body expects pain and choosing, anyway, to face the day.

And perhaps one day, my body will learn again what safety feels like.

Until then, I will write.

I breathe.

I stayed.