Right before I was diagnosed with anxiety, I had already spent years throughout high school, and well into the beginning of university, constantly forgetting simple things. And it wasn’t the dramatic kind of forgetting, like losing track of names or entire memories the way we imagined cases of amnesia would be. Mine was quieter, subtler. I would forget what I ate just one before. I’d forget the things I promised myself I’d bring to school the next day. Little things that would simply slip out of my mind as if they were never there. I never thought any of this had anything to do with anxiety. I simply told myself that I was “forgetful”, “clumsy”, the labels people usually threw at me. I accepted them too, because they made sense. I can even forget to write things down on my to-do list, or forget to check my journal when I actually did write them. Eventually, I started writing reminders on my hand, because you can’t exactly misplace your own hand. Every time when I feel like I’m forgetting something important, the words would be right there, etched on my palm, reminding me of the things my mind couldn’t hold. It wasn’t until my first real therapy session that I learned this kind of forgetfulness is one of the core symptoms of anxiety and, at times, depression. That being this forgetful, especially at my age, wasn’t something to brush off. It was a sign, that my mind was overwhelmed, overworked and shutting down in ist own way. Realizing this made me see my forgetfulness not as a personality flaw, but as my body, asking for help. I used to wonder how mental illness could be connected to memory issues, especially when the forgetting felt so subtle, almost harmless. But it does connect. Because looking back, I see now that so much of my mental energy was spent overthinking, replaying conversations and analyzing every tiny detail of my day, that there simply wasn’t any room left for the small things that actually mattered. When you live with anxiety, your mind gets stuck on a loop. You replay everything you did today, then scold yourself for not doing it better. You map out what you should say tomorrow, how you should act, how to appear more composed, more productive, more acceptable. You spend hours rehearsing the future and critiquing the past. And while your mind is busy running simulations, the little everyday things quietly slip through the cracks. Not because they’re unimportant, but because your brain is overloaded with the weight of things that don’t deserve that much space.
It feels like sitting at a desk, buried under piles of receipts, sticky notes and old drafts, telling yourself that you’ll organize them once you “have time”. But you’ll never do. The clutter will build, the mess will grow, and eventually you’ll forget what you were even looking for in the first place. That’s what anxiety can feel like: a mind that’s so full it becomes empty. A space so cluttered it stops functioning. A room you live in, but no longer feel like you control. So I started redirecting the same discipline I once used for overthinking, into managing my reminders. The fear of forgetting became a motivation instead of a weight. Instead of scribbling notes on my hand, I began using my phone, which was something I’ve always had with me. I’d fill my Reminders app with alerts, set hours or even days in advance. I also kept a small notebook in my bag, a place where thoughts had somewhere safe to land, instead of floating away. They were small changes, subtle shifts. But they helped. They gave structure to a mind that often felt like an untidy room. And at that age, anything was better than feeling like I was losing pieces of my own memory. I didn’t want “forgetful” to become a permanent label people used to define me, especially when forgetfulness is so often misunderstood as laziness. It wasn’t laziness. It was survival. And I was doing everything I could to learn how to live better. How to be a better person. Little by little, these tiny habits made my mind feel like mine again. A place I could trust and return to. And maybe, that’s the quiet victory of healing. Not erasing the anxiety entirely, but building a life where you’re no longer ruled by it. Where you can remember things again, not because your brain magically changed, but because you finally made space for yourself. Now that years have gone past since my university days, I’ve realized something important: that reclaiming control doesn’t always have to look dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just the simple act of choosing tools that support the version of yourself that you’re trying to grow into. But most of the time, it’s simply acknowledging that your mind needs care, not judgment. Sincerely, Cherie. The Whiffler is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell The Whiffler that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments.
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Saturday, 29 November 2025
Invasion of the Mind Snatchers
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