Growing up in my small town, I had always felt surrounded by routines and people that made life feel safe. My grandparents, the teachers who shaped me, even those little battles with my mom to stay up late, all felt like constants I could rely on. But life has a way of disrupting even the strongest foundations, and for me, that disruption came not just in the form of a global pandemic, but through my own mind. I’ve struggled with obsessive-compulsive thoughts and anxiety for as long as I can remember. What might seem like small worries or habits on the surface were often impossible to ignore, and they made everyday life feel heavy and exhausting.
My grandfather was one of the most important pillars in my life. He served in the military, and while his discipline and structure might have seemed ordinary to others, to me it was extraordinary. He lived a life of quiet commitment, waking early, keeping his promises, and insisting that doing the right thing mattered even when no one was watching. When I was younger, I remember complaining about a responsibility I didn’t want to do. He calmly told me that in the military, you don’t quit just because something is hard. That lesson stayed with me, but as my OCD and anxiety grew, I realized that “hard” didn’t just mean chores or tasks, it meant facing the intrusive thoughts and fears that tried to control me every day. Learning to face them required the same commitment he had taught me, persistence, patience, and faith that I could grow stronger through struggle.
The pandemic intensified my mental health struggles. The routines that helped me feel grounded disappeared. Every uncertainty, people leaving their homes, touching surfaces, changing schedules, felt magnified and unmanageable. My OCD made me hyperaware of everything that could go wrong, and my anxiety turned that awareness into constant fear. Some days, I couldn’t even leave my room without spiraling into panic. Losing my grandfather in 2021, the person who had always modeled calm and resilience, left me feeling untethered. It was as if the last stable part of my life had vanished, and the weight of my thoughts became unbearable.
In the months that followed, I learned that rebuilding meant confronting my mental health head on. Therapy, journaling, and learning coping strategies helped me slowly regain control, but faith gave me a deeper sense of hope. I remember standing alone in a church, tears running down my face, hearing a message on Psalms 23 that reminded me I was not alone in my darkest valleys. Slowly, I rebuilt my sense of stability, not with the routines of the past, but with tools that let me face my OCD and anxiety rather than be controlled by them.
Through these experiences, I’ve learned that mental health struggles don’t define weakness, they define courage. Managing OCD and anxiety requires resilience, patience, and self-compassion, and it has shown me the importance of support, structure, and faith. The lessons my grandfather taught me, commitment, responsibility, and empathy, combined with my own journey through mental health challenges, have shaped me into someone who can persevere, care for others, and find hope even in overwhelming uncertainty. These experiences continue to guide me, reminding me that mental health struggles can become a source of strength when met with courage, support, and faith.