Why I Reset: A Personal Story About Anxiety, Loss, and Choice

There were two people in my life who I felt truly understood me—and who I deeply understood in return. My dad and my grandmother. What connected us wasn’t just love or shared history—it was something deeper: we all lived with anxiety.

My relationship with my dad was complicated. He was direct—sometimes painfully so. He once told me that, in all honesty, he probably wasn’t meant to be a father. But still, in our own way, we were connected.

Then there was my grandmother. Gentle. Tender. Still honest and direct, but her love always came through—even in simple emails that meant the world to me. She cheered me on like no one else.

They both had adventurous spirits.

My dad served in the Navy, traveling the world—Philippines, Amsterdam, Barcelona—he had stories for days and carried the thrill of having lived. My grandma, born in London, traveled back there often, and even visited Africa. They were bold, vibrant, full of life.

And in many ways, so was I. I loved to travel. I said yes to things no one else would. I wanted to live.

But slowly, I began to change.And I realized—so had they.

For my dad, it started when he had to take a leave from work. Suddenly, all that time at home became his new normal. He grew anxious—terrified of the outside world. If something couldn’t be delivered, he didn’t want it. And forget about leaving the house. That became unimaginable.

My grandmother, too. She lived far away, and you only saw her if she wanted to be seen. She liked her space. Her solitude. But over time, that solitude turned into something else. Isolation became her identity.

It’s strange how anxiety works like that. One day, everything seems fine. And then one day... you're not the same person anymore. You become someone you barely recognize. I watched this happen to them—and I didn’t understand it. Not at first.

But then anxiety came for me.

And suddenly, I did understand.I understood the declined invites. The love of routine. The deep comfort of familiarity. The need for safety—even if it meant pulling away. I finally saw them clearly, because I had become like them in some ways. And maybe that’s why, when no one else could reach them... I still could.

But they both died.

And they both died alone.

No one knew for days—because not hearing from them for days was normal. That’s how anxiety shaped their lives. That’s how it isolated them.

And that’s why I fight. Every single day, I choose to fight my anxiety—not because I’m stronger or better—but because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. I’ve seen what anxiety can steal from us if we let it. I’ve felt it inch its way into my life the same way it did theirs.

They weren’t broken.They tried.They loved.They mattered. And their efforts deserve to be remembered.

This is why I reset. Because I don’t want to slowly disappear from my own life. Because I don’t want to become unrecognizable to myself. Because I want to honor them—and choose differently.

And because I still believe peace is possible.