The Waiting Room
We often think of healing as a peaceful, restorative process—but what happens when it triggers the very anxiety you're trying to overcome?
This morning, I came face to face with the reality of my anxiety lying on the doctor’s table.
During physical therapy, the therapist guides me through the exercises, and afterward, the chiropractor adjusts my back and ribs. In between, they put the TENS machine on my spasming muscles. (a TENS machine is a pain-relief device using gentle electrical pulses.) They set the timer for 20 minutues and I wait—and that’s when the anxiety creeps in. They shut the light off, and as they leave the room, they say, “Have a good nap.” To me, it feels more like torture, not physically, but mentally. I lie there counting the minutes, tense, barely breathing, resisting relaxation. The moments meant for healing get hijacked by racing thoughts.
Thoughts like: Am I making too much of this? What if they think I’m dramatic? What if I really am just too much?
At intake, the rehab specialist had asked, “How old is this injury, and how did it happen?”
“Six years ago,” I replied. “A car accident… A drunk driver hit me in a hit-and-run.”
The words came out flat, clipped. I didn’t want to say more. Not because I didn’t remember—but because I remembered too well. There’s a kind of shame that clings to trauma, even when you know it wasn’t your fault. A fear that sharing the whole story will make people uncomfortable, or worse—that they’ll see you as too much. Too heavy. Too complicated.
So I kept it short, like I always do. As if that part even matters to her.
“Have you had physical therapy since then?”
I laughed—the kind of laugh that covers a cry too deep to voice.
So much has happened since that accident. What should have been a straightforward insurance claim became a six-year battle just to get my medical bills paid. I eventually won enough to cover most of it, but what I was left with was PTSD, anxiety, and a deep distrust in the system. Again.
I tried therapy on and off, but I’d quit—sometimes because of the cost, sometimes the pain, and sometimes because deep down, I didn’t feel like my pain justified the inconvenience. That it was all just too much.
“Lots, but not consistently,” I had told her.
Healing can feel like a burden—not just the pain, but the vulnerability. The fear of being seen as fragile, like if I break, no one will catch me. I’ve always felt I have to be strong. But I’m learning I don’t have to shrink to deserve healing. I can be 'too much' and still worthy. Yes, I’m healing my body, but I’m also working to heal the part of me that believes I’m only lovable if I’m 'enough.'
