The Battle I Fought in Secret

The Invisible Weights We Carry

Let me start with a small but real confession: vulnerability doesn’t come naturally to me. Growing up in a Jamaican household in D.C. meant that strength was as much a part of my upbringing as jerk chicken on Sundays or my dad’s thick, lilting accent reminding us to "work twice as hard for half as much." In my family, strength wasn’t just admired—it was expected. You didn't complain, you overcame. You didn’t falter, you pushed through. So naturally, I learned to package my emotions neatly, like oxtail leftovers in aluminum foil: sealed, unspoken, and stashed away.

But strength can be a tricky disguise. Mine worked well enough to deflect questions and keep my struggles under wraps, but at the cost of feeling wholly connected to myself and others. My battle? I spent years hiding the fact that I struggled with anxiety—an uninvited roommate that snuck in sophomore year of college and refused to pay rent. On the outside, I was Marcus Chambers, the sharp, polished D.C. native with a full ride to Georgetown and the poise of someone halfway through a political career. But inside? My mind was doing gymnastics worthy of an Olympic highlight reel, flipping every worry into catastrophes that existed only in my imagination. Spoiler alert: none of this flips well into a healthy romantic life, but we’ll get to that.

It took years to fight my battle in secret—and then years more to understand that hiding it was making it harder.

A Classic Dating Plot Twist

Let’s be clear about one thing: anxiety and dating make one binding cocktail of chaos. You’re trying to connect with someone, maybe put your best foot forward, but your mind is backseat-driving, screaming, What if they think you’re too much? Or worse: What if they think you’re nothing at all?

Case in point: the time I took a coworker-turned-date to one of those build-your-own ramen spots. (Look, I was a grad student—my wallet wasn’t exactly up for fine dining.) The evening was off to a great start—easy banter, genuine laughs—but somewhere around the broth station, I made one wrong move: I spilled bok choy. Not just a little bok choy, but enough for a small army. Then, it happened. That familiar squeeze in my chest, like my ribs got swapped out for a pair of constricting snakes. I smiled like nothing was happening, but inside, my brain was doing a TED Talk on How You Just Ruined This. The rest of the night was fine—she didn’t even seem to notice my sudden retreat into more surface-level conversation—but I went home feeling like I’d failed some unspoken test. Anxiety is funny like that. It’ll hand-deliver a script (that you didn’t ask for) where you’re always simultaneously the villain and the fool.

But here’s the kicker: the battle I fought hardest wasn’t the anxiety itself—it was the shame of admitting it.

“You Good?” and the Silent Struggles

One of the running jokes in Black families is how much we rely on the phrase, “You good?” as a substitute for excavating real feelings. But let’s not confuse simplicity with carelessness. My parents showed their love in countless ways, like how my mom always made a pot of sorrel for the holidays or how my dad obsessively cleaned my first car before telling me it was “unacceptable” that I couldn’t change a tire. Emotional excavation, though? That wasn’t our dance.

I came up against those cultural barriers the hard way when my anxiety got worse in graduate school. Between unpacking my own expectations and the sheer weight of Harvard’s name, there were nights when I’d stare at blank Word documents until my chest ached. I caught myself pulling away from friends, shrugging off questions with a smile or (my personal favorite) a laugh followed by “You know how it is.” People rarely pushed back—they assumed I was just busy or that I thrived in pressure because, hey, hadn’t I always?

But the truth is that silent battles are easy to miss in others because we’re too good at pretending they aren’t raging within us.

Breaking the Pattern, One Hard Conversation at a Time

It wasn’t until my late twenties that I started calling my secret what it was. Anxiety. That word felt foreign to my tongue, like I’d borrowed it from a language I didn’t fully understand. But it also felt... freeing. Naming it made me realize how much I’d been carrying alone—and how much lighter it felt when someone else knew.

Here’s how claiming that truth began to change everything, particularly in my relationships:

  • I started leading with honesty. My answer to “You good?” became more nuanced than a casual “yeah.” I’m not saying I poured my soul out to every friend or date who asked, but I got comfortable saying, “Actually, I’ve had a rough day—can I tell you about it?” That small shift opened doors I’d been convinced were locked.

  • I prioritized therapy like I prioritized the gym. You know how people say, “Hey, maybe you should work out so your body can feel stronger”? Therapy is that, but for your soul. My therapist gave me tools to separate legitimate worries from the blockbuster disasters my anxiety liked to produce. She also reminded me that my anxiety wasn’t a weakness but a part of my brain’s wiring—and I had the power to learn the settings.

  • I learned to filter who deserved entry. Vulnerability isn’t about handing everyone the keys to your struggles. It’s about deciding who’s worth letting in. Existing authentically in relationships doesn’t mean showing up in complete disarray or testing someone’s emotional capacity on the first date. Instead, it’s about slowly revealing the real you—and trusting that the right people will respect it.

The Empowerment in “This Is Me”

At 33, I still feel my anxiety at times—it hasn’t evaporated into therapy-infused mist—but I’ve learned to see it differently. Instead of avoiding it or drowning in shame, I lean into the lessons it taught me: self-awareness, empathy, and the healing power of unfiltered conversations.

On the surface, I used to worry that anxiety made me less likable or “too complicated” for relationships. In reality, owning it taught me how to connect better—not just with other people, but with myself. And now? I’ve learned one of the most freeing gestures of all: looking someone in the eye and saying something vulnerable like, “I don’t have it all figured out, but I’m trying.” Nine times out of ten, those words are met with understanding (and sometimes admiration). All that soul-searching I feared would push people away has ended up making my connections stronger—and more worthwhile.

The Battle Was Never the Enemy

If you’re fighting your own silent battle, here’s the thing: the battle isn’t the enemy. Silence is. Shame is. The belief that you’re supposed to “power through” without stumbling. Invite the right people into your circle—friends, partners, therapists—who know how to hold space for your humanity. Anyone who makes you feel like a burden? They’re not your people.

We’re all messy in our own ways, carrying weights that don’t always show. And if I learned anything from the buildup (and eventual unraveling) of years keeping my anxiety a secret, it’s this: letting others in doesn’t make you weak. It’s how you win the battle—and make peace with it.