Rebecca's Story: My Battle With Anxiety

Author: Rebecca

My Story: My Battle With Anxiety

Health anxiety has always been a quiet passenger in my life – lingering in the background, whispering “what ifs” and worst-case scenarios. But I never truly understood the weight of it until it began to take over.

When my son was born in 2014, I remember being convinced he wouldn’t make it home alive. I was in full panic mode. The nurses had to turn all the monitors away from me because I couldn’t stop obsessing over every beep, every number. I was terrified, and it was more than just new-mum nerves. I was put on medication at the time, which helped, but that was just one chapter.

Fast forward to 2024, and my world turned upside down again – this time in a much more traumatic way. My sister was diagnosed with a brain tumor. The moment I heard the words, something inside me changed. I became a machine. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep – I just existed to be by her side. I was terrified to leave her, convinced that if I wasn’t there, something awful would happen. I couldn’t imagine life without her, and in my heart, I truly believed I wouldn’t be able to live without her. Thankfully, my sister recovered. But as she began to heal, my own battle truly began.

Entering survival mode

Everything I had suppressed during her illness came crashing down on me. The adrenaline faded, and in its place came overwhelming panic. It started with something I’ve had for years – acid reflux. I’ve dealt with it since I was 18, and now I’m 35. But this time, I was convinced it wasn’t reflux. I was sure it was stomach cancer. I fell deep into the rabbit hole of Google, searching symptoms, joining stomach cancer support groups on Facebook, comparing my story to strangers online and convincing myself that I was dying. My GP referred me for an endoscopy, and the three-week wait for that appointment felt like an eternity. I was in complete turmoil.

I became dissociated from everything around me – my children, my friends, my partner. I was physically present, but mentally I was somewhere else. Somewhere dark. I was consumed by fear. I couldn’t enjoy the little things anymore. My body was in survival mode, but my mind was spiraling.

This is what health anxiety does

It hijacks your thoughts. It convinces you that you’re seconds away from catastrophe. And even when logic tells you you’re okay, the fear is louder. After that initial spiral, things got worse before they got better.

I started making numerous visits to A&E. Not just because I believed I was seriously ill – although I absolutely did – but because the anxiety symptoms were so intense, they convinced me something terrible was happening in my body. I had stomach pain, aching limbs, shooting pains in my arms and legs, and terrifying panic attacks that would come out of nowhere. I was convinced each one was a heart attack, a clot, something life-threatening.

I lied to my partner and my family about where I was going. I didn’t want them to know how bad it had got – or maybe I didn’t want to be talked out of going. I just needed to be in A&E, that’s the strangest part: A&E, a place that normally terrifies me, with its bright lights, the long waits, the smell, the uncertainty – became the place I felt safest. It was the only place where I felt someone would listen to me, take me seriously, check me over, and maybe just tell me I was okay. For a few hours, I’d feel a sense of control, a moment of calm… until the fear crept back in.

Loneliness

It’s hard to explain to people who haven’t lived it, but health anxiety isn’t just “worrying too much.” It’s a constant, exhausting, all-consuming fear that takes over your body and mind. It convinces you that every ache is a warning, every flutter in your chest a ticking clock.

What made it even harder was the loneliness I felt, especially with my friends. They didn’t know what to say or how to help. I remember one moment so clearly – my best friend of seven years looking at me with complete dismay after a doctor reassured me I was fit and well. She wanted to believe that was the end of it. But I couldn’t. I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe him. The fear was louder than any diagnosis – or lack of one.

I would call my dad and step-mum almost every night, panicking about a new symptom, a new diagnosis I had convinced myself I had. My poor dad knows more about my body, my symptoms, my aches and pains than any father should. I became obsessed with checking myself – lumps, bruises, pains – over and over, to the point that I gave myself bruises from poking and prodding. I needed to find something, because that would mean the fear was valid. It sounds irrational, but in those moments, it felt like survival.

Something had to change

Eventually, I knew something had to change. The look the doctors gave me after numerous hospital and doctor visits scared me, not in a medical way. They were now concerned about my mental wellbeing. In that moment I thought about my two children, the two babies I had to protect.

I started seeing a therapist. I also began joining support groups – the RIGHT ones this time – with people who truly understood what I was going through. Not places that fed the fear, but spaces that helped me feel seen and supported. Slowly, the anxiety symptoms began to fade. Not disappear entirely but be less intrusive. I started to reconnect with life again. I could be present with my children, laugh with my partner, message a friend without a health fear behind it. A little spark of “Becky” came back.

Looking to the future

Now, a year later, I sit here writing this – and I know that the demon of health anxiety will probably always be there in some form. But I’ve found strategies that help. I’ve built a toolbox of support: therapy, breathwork, journaling, mindfulness, limiting how much I Google (still working on that one), and most importantly, reaching out when the spiral starts.

I share this not because I have it all figured out, but because I know how dark and lonely it can feel. If you’re reading this and you’re in that place – please know you’re not alone. There is a way through. It’s not quick, and it’s not always easy but healing is possible. You are not broken – you’re just overwhelmed, overwhelmed people deserve care, not shame.

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