My heart races for no reason sometimes.
I’ll be sitting still, doing nothing, and suddenly it feels like something is wrong. My chest tightens. My breathing gets shallow. I check my phone, the clock, the room—trying to figure out what set it off. Most of the time, there’s no clear answer.
Before school, my stomach hurts. Not the kind that goes away with food, but the kind that sits there all morning. I think about the bus ride, the classrooms, the noise, the expectations. Even on days when nothing bad is supposed to happen, my body acts like it’s bracing for something.
My thoughts don’t slow down when I need them to. At night, when everything is quiet, my mind gets louder. I replay conversations, worry about things I said wrong, imagine things going badly before they even have a chance to happen. I tell myself to relax, but my brain doesn’t listen.
The hardest part is that I don’t know how to talk about it. I don’t want attention. I don’t want people to think I’m being dramatic or overreacting. I don’t want to explain something I barely understand myself. So I say I’m fine. I keep showing up. I try to act normal.
Sometimes I wonder if everyone feels like this and just hides it better. Other times, I’m scared there’s something wrong with me that I don’t have a name for yet. I look up symptoms late at night, then close the tab because it feels too real.
I don’t need a big moment or a label right now. I just want to understand what’s happening to me. I want to know that this feeling won’t last forever. I want to feel normal again—or at least feel like I’m not alone in this.
Maybe one day I’ll find the words to tell someone. For now, I’m still learning how to sit with the feeling, hoping that understanding is the first step toward breathing easier again.
