I’m walking down the orchestra hallway, holding my violin in my left hand, my bag hanging on my right shoulder. I pass by fellow orchestra members, wave and say a few hi’s. And then I’m out of the fine arts hall, passing by the gyms and athletic hall.

The air seems to turn cold, and my comfortable bubble is shattered. During the five seconds that I walk by the gym, I feel exposed and out of my comfort zone. I pass by a gaggle of athletes, I feel they are looking at me because I am different than them. I look down, just trying to get out of the zone.

But then, I’m okay, walking down to the library as if nothing had changed. Acting completely normal.

Because I’m fine. Really.

That’s just how things go.

I meet my best friends in our corner in the library, where we talk about our day and crack jokes, and I forget about my anxiety earlier. It’s just something in my everyday life.

But I’m fine. Really.

I’m at a restaurant. It’s a nice restaurant. Italian. My favorite.

We’re sitting in a booth, my family and I, and everything is going great.

Then, as we’re leaving, my dad asks me to go get a box so we can take some of the food home for lunch tomorrow.

I shudder inwardly and mutter a slight “okay” as I get up to walk to the desk. There are two older guys standing there, talking to their respective customers.

I approach awkwardly. My hands are trembling, and I get a nervous feeling in my stomach, and I feel no relief even though I tell myself over and over in my head:

“I’m fine.”

I wait until one guy is free, and then squeak out, “MayIhaveaboxforfood?”

“Sorry?” He doesn’t understand me.

Inside my mind, I’m panicking, “Oh God.”

I finally get out, “A box, please?”

He hands one to me, and I feel relieved. I walk away, glad that I can go back to my family, where I feel safer.

Much safer.

But it’s okay.

It’s fine.

Really.

I’m sitting in my English class, surrounded by people I don’t really know. The teacher reminds me of a hawk, because she sees everything.

I mean everything.

It’s my least favorite class for a reason.

We’re doing drills. It’s an exercise, where we get picked by the hawk and have to yell out an answer in five seconds or less.

I hate it.

But as luck would have it, I get called on.

My hands get clammy and sweaty. My foot starts twitching; I try to focus on the answer and not the fact that everybody is watching me with wide eyes.

It’s okay, I’m fine.

Except I’m not.

I’m not fine.

I mumble “I don’t know,” eyes downcast.

I run out of the class when the bell rings.

Anxiety was never a big part of my life until middle school. It affected me in many ways, and I it still affects me today. But each time I feel hurt or insecure, I say the same thing:

“It’s not okay, and you’re not fine, but you will be.”

And I always am.