I used to think my secret struggle was just part of my personality, like my knack for losing socks or my inability to parallel park without an audience of frustrated drivers. But this struggle? It wasn’t quirky or cute—it was suffocating. I battled with it for years in private, convinced I could figure it out on my own. Spoiler alert: I couldn’t. And while I’m not big on over-dramatizing (Colorado kids like me thrive on low dramas and high mountains), finally facing it down felt like wrestling a bear. A metaphorical bear. Let me explain.

The Weight of Being Everybody’s Boulder

Growing up in Boulder, I learned early on how to hold space for other people. My folks, with their endless activist gatherings, were all about community and carrying collective burdens. “Every pebble helps build the mountain,” my dad would say, a literal and figurative mantra for his work in conservation.

So, naturally, I became everyone’s emotional rock. Friend going through a breakup? I’d bring over a thermos of (compostable) herbal tea and spend the night dissecting text messages. Coworker stressed about deadlines? I’d volunteer to proofread—even if it meant staying up until midnight. This might sound noble, but here’s the rub: I never let anyone return the favor.

Why? Because admitting I couldn’t handle something felt like I was betraying the mountain-builder within myself. I told myself I was strong, self-sufficient, granola-and-grit, made to weather storms. But years of bottling things up led to a quiet implosion. I wasn’t just holding space for others—I was hiding in it.

The Breaking Point (aka The Campfire Confessional)

Let me set the scene: I’m on a camping trip with some close friends, nestled near Mount Bierstadt. It’s one of those postcard-perfect evenings where the sky is so clear you can see every star ever written about in folk songs. We’re telling stories. Someone asks me why I’ve been quieter than usual lately. And just like that, my dam bursts; only there’s no Colorado River behind it—just emotions I didn’t even realize I’d been repressing.

I share that I’ve been struggling with anxiety. Not the “ooh, butterflies in the stomach during a first date” kind but the bone-deep, paralyzing, unrelenting version. My friends’ reactions? Shockingly uneventful. They didn’t gasp or look at me like I sprouted a second head. One of them just passed me a s’more stick and said, “Dude, that sucks. Want to talk about it?”

And just like that, I realized how much easier it was to face fears out loud, even if it meant feeling exposed. Spoiler: vulnerability doesn’t make you weak. It just makes you human.

The Surprisingly Not-So-Rugged Path to Healing

So, what did I do to fight back? I didn’t move to a yurt in the forest (tempting) or start meditating 24/7 (though I gave it a go). What helped me dig out of my struggle was a combination of things, which I’m sharing here in case you’re carrying something heavy, too.

  1. Stop Acting Like a DIY Project
    I’d always seen myself as one of those earth-conscious, multi-functional products you’d find in a zero-waste store: biodegradable and endlessly renewable. Turns out, people aren’t bamboo straws. I finally stopped playing therapist to myself and found an actual therapist—someone trained in untangling the messy neurons inside my head. Best decision I ever made.

  2. Tell the Truth (Even When It’s Ugly)
    I also started talking more honestly with the people in my life. This wasn’t easy. Imagine confessing, mid-hike, to a friend that you’re spiraling, while clinging to a trail mix bag for moral support. But every time I spoke my truth, it chipped away at the isolation keeping me in the pit.

  3. Find Anchors, Even in Small Things For me, this was nature. There’s something grounding about standing in a forest, knowing that those trees have seen storms bigger than yours and survived. On particularly rough days, I’d drive to the foothills, climb the nearest trail, and breathe until my shoulders unclenched. (Pro tip: You don’t need to summit a peak; sometimes, sitting by a stream is enough.)

  4. Cut Yourself Some Slack I used to pride myself on being dependable—but for everyone else. My big lesson here? Being dependable for myself matters more. That meant blocking out “me time” without guilt and saying no to things that drained me, even if it disappointed others. Example: Once, I left a friend’s birthday party early because I felt like I was one group dance away from a meltdown. “Survival over social optics” is now my pavement-pounding mantra.

  5. Learn to Laugh About It
    One day, during therapy, I described my brain as a frozen yogurt machine that cranked out “worst-case scenarios” instead of froyo. My therapist laughed. I laughed. And it hit me: sometimes the best way to loosen anxiety’s grip is to stop taking it so seriously.

Why This Matters for All of Us

Here’s the thing: no one’s walking through the human experience unscathed. Not even mountain kids like me who grew up thinking every storm was just a refreshing rain shower. Whether it’s anxiety, heartbreak, self-doubt, or something else entirely, you’re not broken for feeling it. You’re just traveling roads others can’t always see.

What I’ve learned—and I hope this sticks with you—is that leaning on others doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you brave. You don’t have to carry the weight alone, no matter how used you are to being the “strong one.” And asking for help? Well, maybe that’s how we build mountains worth climbing.

This story’s far from over—it’s an uphill hike with switchbacks and the occasional cliffside snack break. But I’m finally done battling in silence, and that feels like half the victory. Whatever you’re carrying, don’t feel like you have to keep it secret. Speak it, share it, scream it into the wind. You’d be amazed at what you can let go of when you finally let others hear you.