Category: I Am

The Many Faces of Anxiety

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

I didn’t set out to write about anxiety today. But like most days that begin gently and gather weight, yesterday left me with a churning restlessness I couldn’t shake off. And now here I am, trying to name it.

It began with animal abuse videos flooding my Instagram feed—violent, horrific glimpses into a world I wish didn’t exist. I know we’re all supposed to just scroll past or log off, but I can’t. That’s my weakness, maybe. I can’t look away when animals are in pain. I shared many of those videos to my story—perhaps to shake others awake, perhaps because I didn’t know what else to do.

In India right now, there’s been a surge of hostility towards stray dogs, after a tragic incident where an athlete and animal lover died of rabies—because he didn’t take a post-bite vaccination. That one lapse has turned into widespread panic. Dogs are being relocated, mistreated, even culled. And while his death was tragic, it was also preventable. But instead of addressing that, society’s instinct has been to punish the voiceless. It’s breaking my heart.

On top of that, I’ve been rehearsing for a dance performance—something very close to my heart. A friend invited me to perform two songs I’ve loved since childhood. One of them being physically gruelling as it involves about 6 minutes of continuous dancing – and I’ve poured myself into it: choreographed it, envisioned it, even arranged for the costume. But my body… it’s starting to feel like it’s turning on me. My right shoulder’s frozen, and after Saturday’s long rehearsal, my left knee’s in real pain again—echoing an old injury that once had me limping for months. It frightens me that my mind is dancing ahead, full of rhythm and joy, while my body is buckling, unsure it can carry me through.

I felt like Mary Carson from The Thorn Birds, bitterly remarking to Ralph that it’s God’s final cruelty—to give us hope and desire, while letting our bodies decay. I understand that sentiment too well today.

I’m going to see my physiotherapist again, hoping for answers or at least reassurance. But the truth is, I’m scared. I’m anxious that I won’t be able to perform, or worse—that I’ll damage my body even more trying to prove something. My family doesn’t want me to do this. But I do. I want it so badly because I know I can do it well—if only my body holds out.

Then, as if all that wasn’t enough, I ended up scrolling through old photos—of people who are no longer in my life. And the weight of those absences returned, quietly and cruelly. Some losses never announce themselves again—they just slip back into you, uninvited, and take up space.

The day was dark, grey, and rainy. And I felt that same heaviness. A familiar bleakness.

I’ve written so much about anxiety on this blog before, and yet, here I am again. Because anxiety is not a one-time visitor—it wears different masks, speaks in different voices, shows up at different doors.

But what I do want to say—what I need to remind myself of—is this: sometimes, anxiety walks hand in hand with longing. With courage. With hope. When you’re anxious about doing something, and yet you still want to do it—and you try anyway—that’s the human spirit. That’s what matters.

I just hope I don’t end up hurt. And I hope I don’t hurt anyone else while trying. So I’ll move forward—but with care. With awareness. With as much wisdom as I can muster.

And if you’re feeling like this too—heavy, restless, caught between desire and doubt—please know you’re not alone. Some days will be like this. And that’s okay.

…

I must add this note: I finished writing this post a few minutes ago and I went on Instagram to check up on messages. The first picture, I happened to see was a quote from a page I follow. I must share it here.

I take this as a sign from the universe. This quote speaks to the essential truth of transformation: that before renewal, there is pain. The imagery of “rising from the ashes” is that of the myth of the phoenix, a magnificent bird that dies in flames and is reborn from them. It so happens I have it tattooed on my left arm. Kalen Dion’s words remind us not to romanticise the rebirth without acknowledging the fire.

Suddenly I find the quote being a balm for the anxious, grieving, aching, and the hopeful me — and in fact, all of us who are in the middle of our fire. It says: Yes, you’re hurting now. But you won’t be ash forever. You’re becoming. Stay brave.

And I intend to.

Inheritance

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

I grew up with addiction. My father was an alcoholic—brilliant, complex, deeply flawed. He didn’t just drink; he unravelled. And in the process, he unravelled others. My mother. His siblings. His children. But mostly, himself. He was an intelligent man who became something of a cautionary tale: how talent can wither under the weight of addiction.

My family feared I would follow in his footsteps. That the bottle would become my comfort too. But I stayed away. I didn’t touch alcohol until my late thirties, and even then, only socially, at a club or an occasion. I don’t like the taste. I don’t like the heaviness in my head. I don’t like the feeling of losing control. I found other things that gave me a high—music, dance, art, movement, silence. I didn’t need a drink. Or so I thought.

But lately, I’ve been asking myself: does addiction have to look like a bottle?

I’ve spent hours on my PS5. Not minutes. Hours. I get neck pain, shoulder aches, stiff fingers. But I can’t stop. Not when I’m in it. It calms my anxiety. It silences the noise in my head. I disappear into it. Just like I used to disappear into drawing. Or writing. Or love. Intense, obsessive, all-consuming love. I don’t do things lightly. I either devour or avoid.

It makes me wonder—does addiction always have to be substance-based? Or can it be a pattern of seeking refuge? A hunger to escape, to feel something more—or feel nothing at all?

Science says that addiction is not just about substances—it’s also about behaviour. Gambling, gaming, sex, even food and love can activate the same reward circuits in the brain that alcohol or narcotics do. The dopamine hits, the compulsion, the repetition—it’s all there. Genetics play a part, yes, but so does trauma. And childhood trauma, especially in cases of parental addiction or abuse, is strongly linked to addictive tendencies later in life. Not always the same addiction. But the same ache.

Being a Gemini, I do move on. These phases pass. But when I’m in them, they feel endless. I get completely immersed, and sometimes that immersion costs me—relationships, sleep, health, time. It’s hard to tell where passion ends and compulsion begins.

I don’t know if I inherited addiction. But I know I inherited pain. I know I carry anxiety that feels older than me. And maybe this need to run, to dive headfirst into something, anything, is part of it.

When I find myself vanishing into something, I’ve started asking: Is this a passion? Or a hiding place?

Not everything that feels good is good for me. And not everything I inherited has to be my fate.

I can break patterns. I can stay conscious. I can love without losing myself.

Because healing, too, can be obsessive. And maybe that’s the one addiction I’ll allow.

The Last Goodbye

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

There’s a certain silence that settles on you after watching a limited series about murder—not the kind that titillates or distracts, but one that lingers like a bruise on your spirit. This one told not just the story of the crime, but of the families left behind, trying to stitch together lives torn apart by a loss too brutal to make sense of. And in it, there was a scene I cannot forget.

A girl, just before she falls victim to the murderer, says goodbye to her best friend during a fight. That argument, however mundane or emotional, becomes the last memory her friend is left with. A goodbye laced with hurt—an ending no one knew was final.

It made me think of my own farewells, the ones I didn’t know were final. We never do, do we?

The last time I saw my best friend was at a Starbucks café. We hugged, and I told her I loved her very much. I meant it. She meant the world to me, and I let her know. That memory sits differently in my heart—not as a regret, but as a bittersweet treasure. Even though she later ended our friendship over a text message, I am grateful that in person, I had the presence to say what I needed to say.

But not every goodbye is as kind.

In 2021, during the harrowing COVID wave, I placed my aunt into an ambulance. She was struggling to breathe, and I was too unwell to accompany her. That was the last time I saw her alive. Later, I saw her only on a video call, silent and masked with machines. That was our final moment, and there were no words. She died that night. I couldn’t even hold her hand or see her body, because I was barely surviving myself.

And another aunt—her death still blurs in my memory. I don’t recall our last conversation. Did I say something mundane? Did I forget to say I love you? That absence of memory torments me more than harsh words ever could.

“Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.” – Emily Dickinson

Death, especially sudden or violent death, robs us of preparation. It rips away the chance to mend, to soften, to love a little more. It leaves people with echoes—of words left unsaid, of touches not given, of forgiveness postponed.

And I keep thinking about those who die in such violence—their final hours, their final fears, the last person they saw. I can’t fathom the terror. I can’t help but feel a bone-deep empathy for them and their families, left behind with broken narratives.

We walk through life pretending we have time. We part ways assuming we’ll see each other again. But life doesn’t always work that way.

“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.” – Harriet Beecher Stowe

I wish, for those I love, I could always leave things with kindness—with clarity. That even in my moments of sadness and depression, I could still remind them of how fiercely they are held in my heart. Because if anything circumvents time and death and silence, it is love.

Love is the only constant thread in this ever-shifting tapestry of mortality. It endures the erasures of memory, the noise of regret, and even the stillness of death.

“Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.” – Mitch Albom

So I suppose this is both a reflection and a reminder: to say I love you more often, to forgive more freely, and to part with kindness whenever possible. Because we never know which goodbye will be our last.

And if we can’t always control the endings, may we at least live in a way that keeps our love echoing in the hearts of those we leave behind.