The Root Cause (Part 2 of 6)

How perfectionism, panic, and performance almost broke me

New here? This is Part 2 of my 6-part manifesto series. If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, I’d love for you to start there—it sets the stage for everything I share below.

In this chapter, I return to the years and patterns that led me to the bathroom floor—the ones I thought were just part of being “driven” or “successful.” But the further I looked, the more I realized something much deeper was operating under the surface.

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Even before the panic attacks, the unraveling had already begun.

Life felt like it was flying by without my permission—like I was strapped to a runaway train I couldn't slow down. Stress and survival were my daily companions. Mornings began in a frantic rush: get the kids to school, check the boxes, meet the deadlines. Evenings blurred into dinner, bath time, bedtime—maybe an hour of work if I was lucky. My heart raced constantly, muscles tense, mind always three steps ahead, never present.

I was chronically exhausted, but I didn't know there was another way to live.

Like so many women, I tried to fix the unease without disrupting the machine. I devoured self-help books, downloaded calendar apps like my sanity depended on it, Marie Kondo'ed my closet, meal-prepped (sort of…), worked out, got a Zoloft prescription. I saw therapists. I changed my diet, my sleeping habits.

But none of it touched the root problem.

These were just polished Band-Aids on something deeper—something I didn't yet have the language for.

I would later realize that the chaos of my schedule wasn't the real problem.

It was just the latest chapter in a much older story.

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My earliest memories of school are colored by the anxiety of performance.

In third grade, I sat in Mrs. Wilson's classroom with its alphabet border circling the ceiling and the sharp scent of dry-erase markers. Every Monday was "Magic Math" day—a ritual I dreaded more than visits to the dentist.

Each student had exactly two minutes to solve as many multiplication problems as possible on our worksheets. The top five students—those who got the most right in the least amount of time—would have their names displayed on a special chart, crowned as the "Math Masters" of the week.

I remember practicing with flashcards at home, my mom quizzing me night after night until the equations felt like second nature. I'd fall asleep reciting "7×8=56, 12x3=36," confident that this Monday would be different.

But the moment Mrs. Wilson's timer began its merciless ticking, my mind froze. The familiar problems suddenly looked foreign. My pencil felt heavy in my sweaty hand. I could hear my heartbeat in my throat, the scratching of other pencils racing across paper while I sat perfectly still. By the time I shook off the panic enough to begin, the clock had already stolen half my time. I rushed through, making careless mistakes on problems I knew by heart.

Week after week, I watched the same names go up on the chart while mine stayed missing. I'd stare at the wall, pretending not to care, but deep down I wondered: What's wrong with me? I knew the answers at home. Why couldn't I get them right when it mattered?

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Fourth grade came with a new ritual.

I can still picture myself sitting in Ms. Peterson's classroom that October—the smell of pencil shavings and cherry hand sanitizer in the air, sunlight filtering through construction paper leaves taped to the windows.

Every week, right after guided reading, my stomach would tighten just a little. We all knew what was coming. A different teacher would appear at the door, clipboard in hand, and quietly read a list of names. The Accelerated Learners. The "gifted and talented" students.

When my name was called, I'd grab my folder and walk out with the others. The hallway lights always felt extra bright on those days. My heart would pound with each step, my fingers tugging nervously at the hem of my shirt.

There was a quiet thrill in being chosen. I felt proud. Special.

But tucked beneath that pride was a pressure I couldn't name at the time: What if one day I wasn't on the list? What if I stopped being one of the gifted kids? Then who would I be?

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That fear didn't just scare me—it shaped me.

I became a girl who performed, who pleased, who pushed. MVP of the soccer team. "Best Defender" in the basketball conference. Straight-A student. Senior Class President. A full social calendar.

To outsiders, it looked like confidence. But inside, it was survival.

I had unconsciously learned to link my worth to performance.

If I wasn't the best, the brightest, the most put-together—who was I?

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By the time I got to college, the game changed. I was no longer a big fish in a small pond. Suddenly, I wasn't sure what made me special. Everyone around me had also been an accelerated learner, the captain of their sports team, the class president.

So I doubled down. I pushed myself to be exceptional in every area—academics, friendships, appearance. I didn't know how to be okay with just okay. I believed if I stopped striving, I would lose everything. I had internalized the Ricky Bobby philosophy: If you're not first, you're last.

All-or-nothing thinking at its prime.

The perfectionism bred anxiety.

The anxiety bled into disordered eating, insomnia, and eventually those debilitating panic attacks.

At one point, I was misdiagnosed with ADHD. The Adderall helped—for a while.

The pills gave me the superhuman focus I craved, temporarily silencing the voice that whispered I wasn't doing enough.

But over time, my dependency deepened. And so did the shame.

I was unraveling, and I didn't want anyone to know.

So I hid.

I isolated.

I told everyone I was fine—even my parents, even the people who loved me most—while silently falling apart.

Smiling on the outside.

Spiraling on the inside.

I had all the blue ribbons. All the shiny accolades.

But I was sick. Burned out. Hollow.

I had built a beautiful life on a crumbling foundation.

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After that breakdown on the bathroom floor—the one where I thought my heart was literally giving out—I opened my journal and finally let myself write the thoughts I'd been avoiding.

My hand trembled as the pen scratched against paper, tears blurring the ink:

I'm tired of the life I've created. I'm tired of being me. I can't do this anymore. But I don't know what else to do.

It was an emotional rock bottom. A reckoning.

I scribbled a question across the bottom of the page:

SOS. What do I need?

The answer came through so clearly, it felt like thunder in my bones:

SLOW DOWN.

I almost laughed. That couldn't be right. Slow down? Was that even an option? I had deadlines. Babies. Meals to cook. That advice felt reckless. Lazy, even.

But the words wouldn't leave me.

SLOW DOWN.

That's when I realized—I couldn't.

Even if I wanted to.

I didn't know how to stop.

I didn't know how to rest.

Somewhere along the way, I had come to believe that slowing down meant falling behind. That resting meant failing.

That simply being wasn't enough—I had to be useful. Productive. Impressive.

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This wasn't about time management anymore.

It was about identity.

I realized my addiction wasn't to Adderall.

It was to achievement.

I finally saw the truth: I had constructed my entire life around the need to be chosen, admired, and approved of—just as my best friend, Olivia, had pointed out.

I was chasing safety through success.

And it had all been a mirage.

The more I accomplished, the emptier I felt.

It wasn't better time management I needed. It was a new relationship with myself.

I had become deeply disconnected from my own truth. The voice that once whispered my deepest desires had been silenced by the deafening roar of expectations—both external and self-imposed.

But when did this happen? How old was I when I started learning to abandon myself?

I didn't have all the answers.

But, I knew that to heal, I would need to dismantle the belief that my worth came from external achievement rather than internal alignment.

I would need to learn a new way of being in the world—one that valued presence over productivity, authenticity over approval.

This is the hidden epidemic I see everywhere I look-especially among women: millions of us trapped in achievement addiction, mistaking gold stars for fulfillment, confusing busyness with purpose.

We're burning ourselves out chasing validation that was never designed to satisfy our souls.

It isn’t sustainable.

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I understood the inner work I needed to do—but it terrified me.

I wasn’t sure I had the courage to follow through.

But then I remembered a favorite line from a Mary Oliver poem—one my dad had sent me years ago:

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

The words landed like an anchor. They centered me.

What do I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

I forced myself to get still. To listen.

To hear the quiet voice I had been silencing for years.

I didn't hear a single answer at first.

All I knew was this was not it. This was not the way. Something had to change.

I didn't have a five-year plan.

I didn't even have a six-month plan.

But day by day, I tuned in to hear the faint whisper.

You can do this.

You are safe.

You have what it takes.

Not today, but someday soon, you will learn to trust yourself—over all the other voices.

I promise you, you will return to yourself.

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“Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?”

—Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

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