When I was fifteen, I tried to end my life.
Anxiety had been my shadow for as long as I could remember. Not the jittery kind most people joke about, but the kind that feels like it’s built into your bones—like fear was my default setting.
I was a freshman in high school, with no idea I had AuDHD. My girlfriend had just broken up with me. The emotions felt unbearable, raw, and too big for me to hold. I didn’t know what to do with them. I just wanted the noise to stop. RSD at its worst.
My parents were out. My sister was in her room. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of pills—didn’t even look at the label—and swallowed. Seconds later, the regret hit harder than the panic ever had.
I walked into my sister’s room and told her what I’d done. The only words I could get out were, “I took a bunch of pills and I’m scared.”
She called my parents. They raced home. My father, a former EMT, grabbed ipecac on the way to force my body to purge. I threw up for nearly an hour. The poison left my stomach, but the shame and confusion stayed.
What followed wasn’t compassion. It was a blur of counseling appointments and a few classmates mocking me for being “stupid.” None of that helped. What I really needed was someone to put their arms around me and whisper, “You’re not alone. We’ll get through this. When you’re ready, we’ll piece you back together—and this time, you’ll be stronger.”
“You’re not alone. We’ll get through this. When you’re ready, we’ll piece you back together—and this time, you’ll be stronger.”
I think about that often. Because resilience isn’t built by pretending pain doesn’t exist. It’s built by knowing, deep down, that someone will walk beside you when you’re staggering. Not to rescue you, but to remind you that you can still choose to stand.
I’ve had other desperate seasons—chemo at eighteen, my ex-wife leaving me with our three sons. I felt like I was being hollowed out. But by then, I had something different. A flicker of faith that the pain wouldn’t last forever. That happiness was still possible, even if I couldn’t see it yet.
That’s the key: happiness isn’t something you wait for on the other side of suffering. It’s something you grow even in the middle of it. Like flowers reaching for the sun, happiness grows stronger when you shine even the smallest bit of optimism on your darkest circumstances.
Right now, as I write this, I sit in my bed. My body aches in ways I can’t describe. But I smile anyway. Because I know life isn’t about the pain sitting in my muscles. It’s about the joy I still get to create. So I choose happiness now.
The anxiety is still there. It mutters in the background like static I can’t quite turn off. But I’ve learned something crucial: I don’t have to take advice from that voice. I can feel anxious and choose to act from happiness.
And that’s what moves me forward.
What That Night Taught Me
Regret can be a teacher, not a prison.
The instant regret I felt after taking those pills became a lifelong reminder: deep down, I wanted to live. These days, when regret visits me—like missing a chance to say “I love you” or reacting too quickly—I don’t bury it in shame. I listen. I let it remind me that the desire to live better is still in me.
Silence is heavier than pain.
The breakup didn’t nearly kill me. The silence did. What saved me was breaking it with two words to my sister: “I’m scared.” That moment taught me that speaking up, even in a whisper, can be the first step toward survival. Now, when anxiety grips me, I tell someone. Sometimes it’s as simple as telling my partner, “I’m feeling sad.” Naming it loosens its hold.
People don’t always respond the way you need.
Peers mocked me. Adults threw advice at me. None of it landed. What I needed was presence, not performance. I’ve carried that lesson into my own parenting and coaching: I don’t rush to fix. I sit in the discomfort with someone, even when it’s messy. That’s what I try to offer now—the presence I needed then.
Happiness is not a destination.
At 18, lying in a hospital bed with chemo dripping into my veins, I realized I couldn’t wait for happiness to come after suffering. I had to choose it in the middle of it. That’s why today, even as I lie in my bed, my body aching, I find reasons to smile. I put on a ridiculous video, trade jokes with my sons, or feel grateful for one more sunrise. Flowers don’t wait for the storm to pass before they reach for the sun. Neither do I.
Anxiety is a voice, not a verdict.
Anxiety still wakes up with me every morning. I treat it now like static on a radio—always there, sometimes louder, but never the whole broadcast. I picture it as background mumbling, not a prophecy. I hear it, then choose a different voice to follow—the one that says, “Keep going. This is temporary.”
Choosing life isn’t one decision—it’s thousands.
That night when I was 15 was only the first. I’ve had to keep choosing life again and again—when my ex-wife left, when loneliness threatened to swallow me, when my body became wracked with pain. Choosing life doesn’t always look like fireworks. Sometimes it’s as quiet as taking a deep breath, smiling through the ache, and opening my laptop to write words like these.
I still live with anxiety every day. But I’ve learned it doesn’t get the last word. Happiness and anxiety can coexist. One holds me back, the other moves me forward. And each day, I choose to follow the one that builds life.
Thanks for being you,
Brian R. King
This is beyond beautiful: it is both heartbreaking and hopeful. You have taken powerful lessons from life's most difficult experiences.
Wow. That is a powerful piece. Very insightful.