The Work No One Sees
At the beginning of the pandemic, my social anxiety reached a level I’d never experienced before. I’ve always been a hermit, always had anxiety, but suddenly it tipped into what would be classified as agoraphobia. For me, that didn’t mean I stopped existing in the world — it meant every errand, every outing, required immense inner work.
Exposure therapy became my lifeline. Going to the grocery store, riding my bike, walking into a new café — these weren’t simple errands. They were training sessions, therapy in disguise. On the outside, it looked like I was “just” buying milk or grabbing a coffee. On the inside, I was beating back a demon that told me to stay home.
The Invisible Practice
What people don’t see are the endless rehearsals. The talking myself through it. The deep breaths before walking through a door. The dozens of times I had to try, fail, try again. That invisible labor doesn’t show up in a receipt from the store or a coffee cup on the table — but it’s there.
Each small outing was a victory. Exposure therapy taught me that avoidance strengthens fear, but facing it — even in tiny doses — weakens it. Over time, my “speed bumps” of anxiety became easier to cross. They didn’t disappear, but they stopped being roadblocks.
Provincetown as a Marker
Fast forward to Provincetown. Getting there meant navigating airports, ferry docks, crowds, noise — all the places anxiety thrives. And yet, I did it. Not only did I do it, but I was able to help my mom along the way. She even told me how much of a help I was.
To someone else, that might sound like a normal trip. To me, it was proof. Proof that all those “small” moments of exposure therapy added up to something bigger. Proof that I had built enough resilience to move through anxiety rather than be stopped by it.
Pride in the Progress
Were there moments of anxiety? Yes. There always will be. But this time, they were speed bumps, not walls. I slowed down, breathed through it, and found my way forward.
I don’t think anyone outside of myself — except maybe my mom — will ever fully grasp how much work it took to get to this point. And that’s okay. I know. She knows. Provincetown isn’t just a place to me anymore. It’s a marker of how far I’ve come.
