Why I’ll Always Put Me First

The doctor walked into my hospital room. He’d spent all afternoon running every test imaginable and was finally ready to go over my results. That morning, an ambulance pulled up to the cul-de-sac my high school sat in. Paramedics ran inside with their equipment and a stretcher. There was a crowd of people surrounding me, some fanning, others recounting to the paramedics the events that led to this moment. I heard one of my teachers just outside of the crowd praying for me, almost like a mother would. I knew for sure I was dying. About thirty minutes before this scene, I’d been walking down a hallway when an overwhelming, faint feeling came over my entire body. Seconds later, my heart started racing and my breathing became shallow. The pace of my breathing was inexplainably quick. It was totally unnatural. My chest was expanding and compressing at rapid speed—it seemed impossible for my breathing to keep up with my heart rate. I knew for sure I was having a heart attack. One wrong breath, I thought, and it was over.

“What all do you do?” the doctor asked. I was a 17-year-old high school senior, just a couple of months shy of graduation. I was submitting senior projects, interning at National Public Radio, captain of my school’s step team, active in other extracurriculars, applying for scholarships, getting my collegiate affairs in order and everything else my Virgo soul longed to do to stay ahead of the game. After I finished running down my laundry list of life to-dos, the doctor, who wasn’t at all impressed, responded, “You had an anxiety attack.” “A WHAT?” I thought. It was 2004, a time in our society, especially the Black community, when anything relating to mental health equaled…you know…crazy. I tried to wrap my mind around the words he’d just spoken, but everything was a blur…until I received my treatment plan: “Yea, so you’re not doing anything for two weeks. You’re going to school, going to your internship and going home,” he said. He told me I needed rest. Surely, he didn’t realize how important and integral I was to every organization and obligation I had in my life. I put every single thing and everybody before myself for 17 years. Everybody has a breaking point, and I was clearly at mine. I knew for sure that everything, the clubs, the team, the projects, the groups, the work, would completely fall apart without me.

They didn’t. In fact, everything was perfectly fine. All of the situations, obligations and people that I’d pressured myself to show up for, adjusted to my absence. They shifted and forged forward. And during those two weeks I learned a lesson I’ve carried with me, even today, 21 years after that moment and will for the rest of my life…I’m sure it’s just the realization my doctor wanted me to have: There is absolutely nothing and no one more important than myself. I put ME first. When I’m not feeling my best, my son gets a fraction of a mother. When I’m stretched beyond any reasonable capacity, my husband gets half a wife. And so, nothing—no job, no person, no situation, no guilt and no obligation—will ever make me forsake ME. My realization is a testament to the age-old oxygen mask metaphor: Put your mask on first before helping others with theirs. I learned this first hand then, and have adopted that metaphor as a value in my life. Life goes on with or without you, so it’s best you take care of yourself. As someone who has now lived with anxiety disorder for decades, I know the importance of ensuring your cup is constantly being filled. I indulge in rest, relaxation, therapy, happy moments, positive energy, gratitude, exercise and anything else that helps balance out my stress and worries. And so, a message for all those feeling overwhelmed, exhausted and/or at your wits end: You probably are. Don’t push yourself any further. Be gentle with yourself. Respect what your mind, body and spirit are all telling you. And rest. Everything will be fine, so long as you are.