Kendall P.
If you’re reading this, keep wearing your heart on your sleeve.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always been an open book – open about my emotions, open about the way I’m feeling, even open about when I’m struggling and what it is I’m struggling with. I can’t really put a finger on why I am that way, but it’s always been something that has come naturally to me. It almost feels like something I can’t stop myself from doing. When I say this out loud, it sounds like a positive trait – to have the ability to be so vulnerable with others. But internally, it’s often brought me feelings of regret, and a lot of times, it’s felt like it's caused more damage than good.
I started recognizing symptoms of anxiety within myself as young as elementary school. I remember sitting in my 5th-grade classroom, waiting for my turn to read to the class, and feeling physically sick to my stomach in anticipation. This feeling continued into middle school, when I’d dread going to school because of the thought of being called on in class. I’d walk into school in the morning with shortness of breath and trouble breathing, and I’d leave in the afternoon, often going home and crying. At that time, I didn’t know what I was feeling meant or that it was considered to be anxiety. All I knew was that I was so overwhelmed by these physical reactions I was experiencing.
It wasn’t until the summer before my freshman year of high school that I began to understand these emotions as anxiety, which is when I decided to seek help. I went to therapy hoping to fix these feelings and understand why I would become physically ill before presentations, cross-country meets, or any situation where people’s eyes were on me. It felt more than just your average butterflies – it was debilitating. I believed that with therapy and time, my anxiety would eventually disappear. But when it obviously didn’t, I began to grow frustrated and question my self-worth. I often compared myself to others around me who seemed naturally confident and calm.
Being the open book I am, I’d share with many people how I was feeling, but afterwards, I’d feel ashamed that I let my guard down, and would now be painted as the “anxious” girl. I attempted to balance the personas of being relatable and open, while also not being seen as weak for being anxious all the time. The pressure I put on myself to maintain this image was exhausting, and, being the people pleaser I am, I found myself constantly over-explaining who I am to others.
When I got to high school, my anxiety set in in new ways. I began running track competitively, which came with new expectations and pressure, mostly all self-inflicted. Every Sunday before the school week started, my anxiety would set in about the track meet I had that week. The night before the meet, I would have a meltdown, crying to my parents how I didn’t want to race because I was terrified of not performing well. The day of the meet, my stomach would physically hurt from anxiety, and I would barely eat. And at the meet itself, I’d experience shortness of breath and become lightheaded. When the race was over, my body finally felt at peace, and I’d feel a rush of excitement and adrenaline about the results of the race. The next day at school, I would feel calmer, until Sunday came back around and the ritual would begin again. This pattern became a routine, and I started coping with it in unusual ways. During runs at practices, I would tell myself things like if I didn’t make it to a tree or a post by the time the car on the road did, I would lose the race. On race day, if I didn’t wear the same socks, eat the same food, or tie my shoes a certain number of times, I would lose the race. At this point, I was no longer going to therapy, and these habits and routines eventually started to consume my day-to-day life. The mental breakdowns and crying to my parents increased. To this day, four years later, I still have stress dreams about running a 400-meter race in a track meet. At the time, I wanted to quit, but my perfectionism and people-pleasing wouldn’t let me. It felt like I was letting everyone down, like I was throwing away a gift.
These patterns followed me outside of track. I worked a restaurant job in high school, and every night when I’d leave the restaurant, I’d have to call my parents walking to my car, or else I was convinced something bad would happen to me. My thoughts during track practice runs, which consisted of “running to a tree or post before a car gets there or else I’ll lose the race,” turned into “running to a tree or post before a car gets there or else something bad will happen to my family or me.” This past summer was the first time I truly acknowledged these thoughts as OCD.
It wasn’t until deciding to run track competitively in college, the summer before my senior year, that I realized how much of my life I spent living for other people. I felt such a pressure to continue my running career in college that I went as far as to verbally commit to a school I did not want to go to. After making this decision, I completely spiraled and decommitted not even a month later. In doing so, I felt an immense amount of guilt. I thought I disappointed all those around me; I thought people just assumed I committed in the first place for attention; I thought, what if I don’t get into any other college and I just threw away this opportunity? After lots of tears and tough conversations, this situation ultimately became the catalyst that brought me back to therapy. Therapy made me realize how much I cared about others' perceptions of me. It also opened my eyes to the fact that I was drowning in my anxiety and OCD, and that maybe I didn’t have to live this way anymore.
Later that school year, I chose to attend Syracuse, which was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I felt like I was truly making a decision to benefit myself and my happiness. These past four years, I’ve made lifelong friends that mean the world to me and studied majors I truly find interest in, all while being surrounded by an incredible community. Still, my anxiety and OCD, coupled together, continued to wear me down. To be completely candid, I think I’ve cried more in the past two years than ever before. I felt so happy at college, but when I would go home, I was alone with my thoughts. The summer before my junior year of college, I started to feel so sad and confused. My emotions were so heightened that anytime I was alone, I found myself crying. The hardest part of it all was how scared I was to talk about it. Always considering myself an open book, unashamed to talk about my anxiety, I felt in shock that I couldn’t share my feelings of depression, not even with my parents or my best friends. I started to get into a routine of crying alone on car rides or in my room, being confused about why I was so upset, and then pulling myself together before seeing anyone, so no one would know.
This continued through this past summer, the summer before senior year, which was arguably the hardest time period of my life. I realized how unhappy I was with many relationships in my life, and how often I put my emotions on the back burner to make others feel comfortable. It caused me to realize why my emotions were so heightened when I was alone – because it was the only time I could decompress. Here I was, asking people to share how they feel through IfYoureReadingThis letters, yet I was having such trouble doing it myself. I became unable to hide the way I was feeling anymore from my parents, and I felt helpless about what I could do to make it all better. I remember sitting in my room, hyperventilating and crying in my mom’s arms, and her asking me what she could do to help. We both felt so frustrated that I did not have an answer for her. It’s even hard for me to write about emotions that I still don’t fully understand myself. While I grew up living with and talking about mental illness, I had never felt so scared to open up; I still even have trouble telling people about this time in my life.
With the help of my amazing therapist, I spent the past summer unpacking everything. I cried and cried and cried. I took the jump and began medication – something that terrified me for so long. I didn’t realize how long I had felt depressed until medication. I didn’t realize that I was living life in dread, and I didn’t realize the energy I had spent putting on a happy, positive face for others.
I can genuinely say now that although this time period was extremely difficult for me, I wouldn’t go back and change it. I feel proud of the work I put into myself and what I’ve grown through. And I also feel at peace knowing that if things get hard again, I’ll eventually come out of it stronger.
When I decided to start a chapter of IfYoureReadingThis at Syracuse, I had no idea the impact it would make on my life. During that summer, when I felt so scared and confused by my feelings, I turned to IfYoureReadingThis and the letters written by so many incredible individuals. These letters helped me feel less alone in my thoughts, and reminded me that it's okay not to have all the answers.
I brought this organization to Syracuse to create a support system for others; to remind people that there is someone on this campus who sees them and everything they are feeling. Little did I know all that it would do for me. I am forever grateful for all the people who helped grow Syracuse’s IfYoureReadingThis. To my incredible team – thank you for taking a chance and turning this idea into something real with me. To IfYoureReadingThis nationals – thank you for believing in me and giving me the tools to build something so meaningful. But most of all, thank you to the authors. I wouldn’t be where I am in my life if it weren’t for this organization, and I can’t thank every author enough for putting themselves out there and sharing their stories. I wouldn’t have had the courage to share mine without each and every one of you.
So if you’re reading this, it’s okay not to have all the answers, but keep wearing your heart on your sleeve. Keep expressing how you feel, even when it doesn’t fully make sense yet. Your emotions are valid, and your story might be the reason someone else decides to share theirs. Thank you.
Kendall P., Syracuse University
IfYoureReadingThis Syracuse Founder and President
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