SEVEN: A Child’s Awakening to Anxiety
At seven, I was in P3 — Primary 3 — at Glenlola Collegiate Grammar School, a private all-girls school. My uniform was a little grey skirt, a royal blue V-neck jumper, a white blouse, a royal blue and white striped tie, and a blazer embroidered with a swan and the Latin motto Nisi Dominus Frustra ("Without the Lord, it is in vain"). We even had to wear berets bearing the same emblem.
Some memories from that year are vivid; others are hazy, like trying to recall a dream after waking. I remember feeling a flutter of nervousness walking into the classroom. I was very good at going inward — it was safer in my own head. On the outside, I was a neat little girl in uniform, but on the inside, I often felt shaky, worried about what the day might bring. I didn’t yet have the language to call this anxiety, but looking back, that’s exactly what it was.
Fridays were the hardest. That’s when we had swimming lessons, and I dreaded them. It wasn’t the swimming itself — it was the open, common changing room where we had to undress in front of everyone. My little seven-year-old body burned with self-consciousness. I remember feeling sick on Fridays, hoping I could stay home, anything to avoid that prickling, overwhelming shame. That tension in my chest, the tight knot in my stomach, the rapid flutter of thoughts — all of it was anxiety. But back then, I didn’t know what I was feeling. I just felt different from everyone else.
At home, life had its own patterns. My sister, 11 years older, was like a second parent. With both Mum and Dad so busy — Mum running her own businesses, Dad away often as Sales Director Ireland for GEC or out playing with his show band, The Rhythm Kings — my sister was the one driving me to school or activities, holding the day-to-day pieces together. I adored her, but looking back, I realize I was also hungry for more time and presence from my parents. It’s important to say here: they did the best they could. But that early sense of abandonment quietly took root in me.
I have flickers of memory from childhood parties at home — the buzz of adults laughing and singing, the hum of music, the way the house seemed to pulse with life. I remember being tucked into bed, straining to hear what was happening downstairs, wanting to be part of the fun. When we moved to a larger family home across town, I remember the housewarming party. The new house felt huge to me then, though when I revisited as an adult, it was just a regular four-bedroom split-level bungalow with a double garage. But as a child, everything loomed large — the joy, the noise, the occasional adult arguments that erupted unexpectedly. Things a child shouldn’t have to see or hear.
Anxiety showed up quietly but persistently. I was highly sensitive to tone, to moods, to subtle changes. I always scanned the room, trying to read the emotional temperature, bracing for what might come next. I learned early to adapt, to shape myself into what I thought people wanted me to be — the good girl, the achiever, the one who wouldn’t cause trouble. That mask would follow me into adulthood, sometimes making me look confident and successful, but hiding the scared, lonely little girl still living inside.
Even at school, I clung to the things that felt safe: art, drawing, colouring in. I loved creative tasks, anything that let me escape into my imagination. There, in the private world of my mind, I could breathe. I spent a lot of time in my head because it was safe there — I could make sense of things, create stories, soothe myself when the outside world felt too loud or unpredictable.
And here’s the truth: no one knew. I was good at hiding it. On the surface, I was a bright, capable child. But underneath, the seeds of anxiety were already sprouting, even though I couldn’t yet name them.
Writing this now, I see how those early experiences shaped so much of my later life. The hunger for connection, the fear of abandonment, the perfectionism, the people-pleasing — all woven back to a seven-year-old girl in a grey skirt and blue jumper, standing in the middle of a world that often felt too big, too loud, and too uncertain.
And yet, there was resilience there too. I see now that even as a child, I was learning how to hold myself together, how to navigate a world that didn’t always feel safe. That resilience stayed with me, shaped me, and brought me here — to a place where I can finally tell this story, name the anxiety, and honour the child who carried it all so quietly for so long.
