Dear Britney (in case you’re still reading):

Your questions feel like they come from a place inside you that’s been hurt— shaped by experiences that still carry pain. They read to me like:

“I want to be honest about what I carry, but I don’t want to lose people because of it.”

“I’ve been hurt before by sharing too much too soon… and I don’t know how to get it right.”

“I want someone who’s willing to be close to me in my pain—not just put up with it from afar.”

If any of that rings true, just know you’re not alone. I hope to read from you, but even if you’re not ready to post again, your voice mattered. You were heard.

Anita

Dear Omyk: Thank you so much for your kind message. I look forward to hearing your thoughts whenever you feel ready to share—there’s no rush at all.

Wishing you a gentle day ahead.

Warmly, Anita

Dear q:

You are so welcome—and thank you for your kind words and for sharing so openly. It takes real courage to be this honest while you’re still in the middle of the struggle. That honesty is strength.

Let me start here: there is no shame in anxiety. It’s not a flaw, and it doesn’t make you less worthy of love or connection. There’s no shame in speaking from anxiety—we’ve all done it.

You wrote, “All the anxiety I’m feeling is making me act and speak out of insecurity and neediness, and that repels my partner even more…”- When we feel overwhelmed, our instinct is often to reach outward—seeking reassurance, love, or clarity from someone else to help us feel grounded. That’s such a human response. But what I’d gently encourage is this: what if the person you most need reassurance from right now… is you?

What if, instead of chasing your girlfriend’s reassurance, you let your own steady part lean in and say, “Hey, I see you’re scared. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You’re navigating an incredibly heavy stretch—long-term unemployment, relationship strain, and intense anxiety—all made more complex by your deep self-awareness and sincere desire to grow. And this person—you—who is facing all of that and still trying to do better, deserves all the compassion you can give him.

Practicing self-compassion doesn’t require grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s as simple as pausing and saying, “This is hard. I’m trying my best. I can be kind to myself, even here.” It’s about reclaiming safety from within, instead of chasing it in the eyes of someone else.

When you’re anxious—especially in emotionally raw moments—your nervous system starts scanning for danger. Am I okay? Does she still love me? Am I failing? Am I safe? If you’ve relied on others for stability (especially growing up), then every delayed text, sigh, or shift in energy can feel like a verdict.

But when you nurture your own inner anchor—a voice that says, “I see you. I’ve got you.”—your nervous system doesn’t have to work so hard for proof. That voice becomes your internal regulator. It gently shifts you from survival mode into a more present, grounded state. It’s a quiet form of self-reparenting—and it’s powerful.

This isn’t about silencing fear or pretending you’re fine. It’s about having a part of you that can sit beside the fear and say, “Yes, this hurts—and I’m here with you through it.”

You might think of it like this: instead of constantly checking the weather outside for a storm, you’re building a warm, reliable shelter inside. That way, when the winds pick up, you’re not running for cover. You already have a place to rest.

If you’d ever like a suggestion for a grounding exercise to support that, I’d be happy to offer one.

You also shared, “I’m afraid of my girlfriend walking out on me.” That fear is so understandable. But sometimes, the more we resist a fear, the tighter its grip becomes. So when you’re ready, you might experiment with gently imagining that possibility—not to brace for disaster, but to show your mind that even in that grief… you would survive it.

Picture the morning after: you wake up. You breathe. You make coffee. You text a friend. You take a walk. Life continues. There is grief, yes—but also breath. Stillness. A new kind of space. Eventually, there are chapters you haven’t met yet.

This isn’t about giving up. It’s about loosening fear’s hold. Because her leaving wouldn’t break you. You are more resilient, more whole, and more deeply alive than that fear leads you to believe.

You don’t have to walk this road alone, Q. You’ve already taken the brave step of reaching out—and I hope you’ll keep doing so, as much or as often as you need to. I’m here, and I’d be honored to continue the conversation whenever you’re ready.

With warmth and respect, Anita

Dear q: I will read and reply to you Mon morning (it’s Sun night here).

Anita

I can almost hear that whoohoo myself through you. Will write more Mon morning.

Anita