Today is the first day of spring. I see the perfectly serene meadow in front of me, the grass swaying gently in the breeze as sunlight glistens across the morning dew. And yet I am in a totally different ecosystem. I cannot hear the sweet chirps of the birds because my own inner monologue is shouting, screaming, shrieking thousands of different criticisms at me. Despite the warm glow of sunlight, I feel cold but not yet numb. Sometimes I think numb would be better. My thoughts are icy tendrils which penetrate deep into my core, as if they are trying to pierce my heart. They are a sharp whirlwind stealing the sun’s warmth before it can touch me. They race all around, slashing my cheeks with harsh words and leaving stinging wounds which may take weeks to heal. Maybe months. But no one else can see the scars they leave.

Although the blue ocean of sky above me doesn’t look like it’s raining, my face is wet. Water droplets roll down my skin because, truly, I am in a thunderstorm. I don’t wipe my cheeks dry: what’s the point if I don’t have an umbrella anyway? I didn’t think I would need it; there was nothing happening to provoke this storm, no dark clouds that were looming in the distance or a northern breeze to warn me of its coming. Nonetheless the storm was here. Just here. Only over me.

I try to fight back against each nasty comment. I try to prove them wrong somehow and show myself kindness when no one else was there to defend me. But with every word I utter, more gusts erupt to counter me. Then they echo hundreds of times like a crowd jeering and mocking me while they rise up from their seats. They make me feel small. Gradually my voice cracks, falters, and shrinks until I can only feel the harsh daggers thrown at me from all directions.

Breathe. Count to three. And again. And again. For the first time in what feels like eternity, there is a glimmer of clarity: silence in the middle of the roaring hurricane. Faintly, I can hear the chirp of a bird. As the winds start to pick up again, I step backwards, deeper into the hurricane and into its eye. I still see the sticks and stones flying around me, but they can no longer reach me. Instead I look upwards at the circle of blue sky above and wait. Gradually the vignette of darkness fades away and I feel the sun’s spring warmth once again, drying the dampness from my cheeks.

I am learning that fighting the panic does not help. Instead I have to truly accept it, experience it, but know that it will soon pass as any storm must. This does not mean it won’t come back again, but each time I survive the storm I am changed. I am stronger. It is important to remember that even though I get wet in the rain, it takes my warmth away, and I am left with wounds that I must heal, I am not the storm. It is something I experience, but it does not define who I am. I am not the storm.

The warm breeze pushes me forward and I take a step, feeling the long grass brush softly against my ankles. I watch tiny flowers blooming brightly amongst their emerald green carpet. Birds flit past me, chasing each other through the sky, their gentle song filling the air. With each step, I feel the strength of my feet on solid ground, the easing tension in my shoulders, the ache dissipating from my head. I breathe deeply. And again. And again.