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Just Breathe Confessionals
Just Breathe Confessionals is a raw, reflective podcast where personal stories meet emotional growth, healing, and truth-telling. Each episode invites listeners into moments of becoming—through heartbreak, self-discovery, and the quiet power of breath.
Just Breathe Confessionals
I Thought That Was Just Me
We all have those strange, quirky habits we developed as children—the comfort objects we couldn't sleep without, the songs we played on repeat, the rituals that made no sense to others but meant everything to us. What if those weren't just childhood peculiarities, but your body's sophisticated attempt to manage anxiety before you had words to name it?
In this deeply personal episode, I unpack the many ways anxiety lived in my body long before I recognized what it was. From frequent escapes to bathroom stalls at school just to breathe, to my beloved comfort blanket "Nana," to falling asleep exclusively to Elton John's "Your Song" for six straight years—these weren't random behaviors but carefully constructed survival mechanisms. The panic of sleepovers, the constant cheek-chewing that my dentist always noticed, the need for noise to drown out silence, the rehearsed conversations playing on loop in my head—all pieces of the same puzzle I couldn't see clearly until others helped name it.
Medication at eight years old was supposed to fix everything, but anxiety doesn't disappear; it shifts and adapts. The most profound healing came not from eliminating these behaviors but from developing compassion for the child who needed them. That younger version of me wasn't dramatic or too sensitive—she was overwhelmed and doing her absolute best with limited resources. Now when those familiar patterns emerge, I've learned to approach them with curiosity rather than judgment, asking "What do you need?" instead of "Why are you like this?" This journey is about learning to listen to our bodies rather than silence them, recognizing that sometimes anxiety isn't the enemy but a signal worth our attention.
If you've ever felt strange or different without understanding why, if you had your own version of Nana or your own equivalent to Elton John's soothing melody, this episode is for you. Share your own childhood coping mechanisms in the comments—I'd love to hear how your body protected you before you had the language to protect yourself.
you're listening to just breathe confessionals, the podcast where we say the quiet stuff out loud. I'm your host, daria and today's episode picks up right where we left off in episode one when we talked about those big early feelings of anxiety and how I learned to name it later in life. But today we're going deeper into the habits, the tics, the quiet panic that lived in my body long before I had the words to name it. For a long time I really didn't know that I was anxious. I knew I had big feelings, I knew I got nervous, but I didn't realize all these small, strange things that I did, the ways I tried to feel okay, strange things that I did, the ways I tried to feel okay were actually anxiety. Talking and looking back now it's so obvious, but at the time it just felt like me being weird.
Speaker 1:I used to go to the bathroom at school, like all the time, and not because I needed to go, but because it was the only place that I could breathe. I didn't have the language for it, but my body knew when I felt overwhelmed or overstimulated too many eyes, too many voices, too much pressure I'd raise my hand and leave. It'd become a quiet ritual for me. I'd stare in the mirror, splash water on my hands and my face, sit in the stall and count the ceiling tiles and the tiles on the ground and wait for my heart rate to slow down. No one ever asked questions. But that bathroom stall, that was the only place I didn't have to perform, the only place I could feel without anyone watching. I didn't know that was anxiety, but now it's so clear. My body was protecting me, even when my mind couldn't make sense of it.
Speaker 1:When I was a baby, my dad made me this little tie-dye burp cloth thing and I called it nana, probably because I couldn't pronounce blanket yet. But yeah, so it was called Nena and Nena was mine. She came with me everywhere I went Vacations, sleepovers, car rides. I'd just sleep with her next to my face, rubbing the fabric between my fingers, until I felt calm. That was my first coping tool. Calm. That was my first coping tool, my first regulation anchor. She told my brain you're safe, you're okay. And I still have her to this day. She doesn't resemble a blanket whatsoever but she's still there.
Speaker 1:I don't know about you, but silence is sometimes really scary, and silence was definitely very scary to me as a kid, so music became my medicine. Elton John's, your Song helped me fall asleep From age 6 to 12, I listened to it every night on repeat, first on a CD player, every night on repeat, first on a CD player, then on an mp3 player, then an iPod. Same song, same order, same ritual. My sister, who shared a room with me, she hates that song now no-transcript. It was peace, it was rhythm, it was something to hold on to when the dark felt too loud.
Speaker 1:When I started going to sleepovers, something shifted. I didn't bring Elton anymore, not because I didn't need him, but because I wanted to fit in. But if my friend fell asleep first, I panicked. My heart raced, thoughts spiraled. What if I can't fall asleep? What if something happens? What if there's a murderer? I knew it didn't make any sense, I was safe, but my body didn't believe it. I'd lie there wide awake for hours.
Speaker 1:Sometimes I just couldn't take it and I'd turn on the TV and just watch anything I could find, and a lot of that time that was just infomercials, and those were so repetitive and so boring and those were so repetitive and so boring. Then the next morning when she'd wake up, I'd pretend everything was fine because it needed to be as I kept growing up. There was other things too Chewing the inside of my cheek constantly At dentist appointments. My dentist would point it out, still chewing on your cheek. I see, yes, doc, it's my anxiety's favorite snack. I would say I had rehearsed conversations not once, but like 12 versions, full plot arcs. My brain would say let's run this one more time, just in case, laughing off things that really hurt, because turning pain into a punchline felt safer and easier. Needing noise constantly music, tv, a podcast, a fan, anything but silence. Needing control of the plan, the people, the tone, even the playlist. I didn't think that was anxiety. I thought it was just me, my personality. But now I know my body was waving a flag trying to say please pay attention.
Speaker 1:As I mentioned in the previous episode, I started taking medication when I was eight and I thought maybe this will fix it, because that's what my parents told me and my psychiatrist Quiet, the noise, make me feel normal. A medication doesn't erase trauma, it doesn't fix instability. It doesn't fix instability, it doesn't teach you how to process Anxiety, doesn't leave it, hides, it shifts, it, finds new ways in. Eventually people started noticing Teachers would check in, coaches would ask you okay. And friends the real ones started naming when I couldn't. They'd say you know, that's anxiety, right, and I'd laugh it off no, I'm just particular. But slowly I started to understand that wasn't normal. That was my nervous system still trying to protect me. When I finally let that truth in, I didn't feel broken. I felt compassion so much compassion for younger me. She wasn't dramatic, she wasn't too sensitive. Felt compassion so much compassion for younger me. She wasn't dramatic, she wasn't too sensitive, she wasn't a problem to fix. She was overwhelmed and doing the best she could with what she had.
Speaker 1:Now I meet those old habits with softness the cheek chewing the spirals at 2 am. The cheek chewing the spirals at 2am, the bouncing legs. I used to ask why are you like this? Now I ask what do you need? Because anxiety isn't always the enemy. Sometimes it's a signal. This whole journey has been about learning to listen, not judge, not fix, not silence. Just listen to my body, to my nervous system, to that little girl inside me who's still learning what safety feels like. She doesn't need solutions, she just needs to hear. I've got you now. Maybe you had a nana, maybe you had a song, a nightlight, a ritual, something that made the world feel less scary. Maybe you didn't have the words, but you felt everything. Anyways, this episode is for you, for the little versions of us who didn't know it was anxiety, but carried it anyway. Thanks for breathing with me. Until next time, just breathe.