“Keep calm and carry on.” That’s what everyone tells you to do, right? When your chest is hurting and it feels like you can barely breathe, just pretend everything is normal and fine, right? When your heart is sitting too heavy in your chest, and it feels as delicate as a piece of glass that can shatter upon hard impact—everything’s fine, right?

In the past, when I voiced these concerns out loud, many people often told me to “just relax.” They would say, even when they could clearly see me visibly panicking and unable to function momentarily, to just  “breathe and relax.” Their words, more often than not, induced the opposite—making me more tense and anxious than before. As if “relaxing” was supposed to be as easy as turning a light switch on or off, or that my body and mind are simple machines and not a complex system of biological and neurological mechanisms beyond my full control.

Throughout my life, I have had moments where I couldn’t understand what was going on with my body or my brain.

I still remember how, in high school, I would wake up during the middle of the night feeling stressed out and anxious, my head filled with thoughts that I made a mistake or didn’t finish something, like completing an essential form for my college application. It would feel like a snake was curling up inside my stomach, its muscles coiling tighter and causing immense pain. There were days where everything felt off, where my head would feel foggy and unfocused. I could start off the day hoping to do everything that I needed to do, but I was unable to accomplish anything.

I wondered why I was this way. Why it felt painful talking to people sometimes, unable to look them in the eyes for fear that they would see my own awkward shortcomings. Why certain tasks seemed harder than others; I couldn’t understand why writing a long paper or article for work was so much easier than “little things,” such as getting something from the store or following certain instructions from my parents. Why, when I made a mistake (even a small one, like forgetting to do a chore at home), would my mind become like a magnet, attracting other moments in my life when I made mistakes, manifesting into a giant mess of emotions that made me feel awful about myself.

As I searched for answers, I realized that living and growing up in the kind of culture that I did may have contributed to these feelings—at the very least, it didn’t make things easier. As the daughter of Russian-American immigrants, I grew up with certain expectations, both those ingrained by my family and those I fostered myself. Like my babushka, who always made sure my sister and I studied as much as we could, even during vacations and breaks from school. Growing up, anything less than my 100% effort, or less than a 90% on a test, would demand immediate critique; my grandmother would accuse me of daydreaming instead of studying and scold me accordingly.

Though I knew this was done out of love, to develop a strong work ethic that would help me succeed in school and provide opportunities for my future (which it did), this resulted in me dwelling on—to this day—whether my assumed failures were the result of a lack of discipline or simply being human.

How could I not wonder in self-doubt? I constantly compare myself to my family, especially my mother, who in her early twenties (the same age range I’m in now) had already married, had a baby, moved to another country, and was studying at university to become a nurse in a language she hadn’t fully mastered yet. My struggles and difficulties, when compared side by side to workaholic immigrant parents who had been running around their entire lives in order to provide our family enough comfort and room for luxury, seemed minuscule and pathetic. I felt pathetic.

Therapy was another issue altogether. It took years of trying and failing to figure out how to control my thought patterns and behaviors by myself before I even thought of reaching out for professional help. And that was against cultural norms, where stoicism seemed to be the native language, and anything difficult could be resolved with discipline or valerian root.

Though my parents weren’t forcefully opposed to therapy, they were used to the idea of healing being associated with physical health and linked to medicine that could produce fast and noticeable results. I still don’t think they understand why the process was taking so long to yield “immediate, visible results” (whatever that means).

Therapy was definitely a new experience for me. For forty-five minutes, I could talk at length with a person about my life and mental health uninterrupted and unquestioned. Though I consider myself to be close to my family, I still find it difficult to discuss certain topics with them, such as mental health, in fear that I come off as spoiled or whiny in face of their own workload. Furthermore, in a large family, it can often be difficult to gain any source of privacy. So, being able to talk to someone outside of my family—who did not judge my feelings—about myself and my experiences provided a much-needed outlet and a pure sense of relief.

My therapist allowed me to understand that my mental health was as important as my physical health and that my desire for a diagnosis was valid.

So, even now, I ask, what is it? Do I have some form of anxiety disorder like my therapist hypothesized? Am I on the autistic spectrum like a family member suggested? I’m not sure. Even now, I still do not have a clear idea of my own mental state. The one thing I know for sure, though, is that I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to guess what I felt was “wrong” with me. I’m tired of feeling exhausted, numb, stressed out, and broken. I’m tired of feeling like I’m failing at a life I barely begun.

As I’m about to graduate college, I still have so many concerns and fears about my future. But right now, I’m also focused on feeling better in the here and now. With my therapist’s advice, I try to create and fulfill resolutions. I’m trying to take care and watch over my mental health by going to counseling, getting enough exercise, and eating healthy. I’m trying to surround myself with those who care about my physical and mental well-being. I’m trying to take the time to indulge in activities I enjoy alongside work and academics.

As I continue searching and learning, I want to remind myself that I’m allowed to be imperfect and to make mistakes. I’m allowed to take time to focus on myself and feeling better. And, maybe most of all, I’m allowed to breathe and just be human.