Ellerie Knowles

A photo from my most recent trip to Disney World.

The feeling of overwhelming anxiousness is present in nearly every waking moment of every day. The breath of relief that follows the stretch is comparable to a breath of fresh air after swimming underwater for too long. Believe it or not, it’s quite a rare occurrence, only happening when all the conditions are right and there are enough relaxing parts that easily outweigh the rest. So, you may ask, when exactly are these conditions right?

It would seem that a place such as a theme park would be anxiety central; people rushing in every way, the anticipation and lines for everything, looks and voices hovering over you, with the faintest suggestion that it could be about you. But somehow, in Disney World, those feelings, although still present, are reduced to a level near nothing. I think it is because of one simple quote that I try to live by: never grow up. To anyone else, it is merely a quote from Peter Pan and the Lost Boys about how to live, but it portrays one of two deep fears for me. That fear I’m referring to, generally, is change. Growing up comes with many great things, but also changes in lifestyle, responsibilities, importance, and so much more. So, when I go to Disney, many of my worries about responsibility and change go away, and I focus on the little, silly childish things—how fast I can get from where I am standing to The Little Mermaid ride and then get my special popcorn. I tend to be embarrassed to say that I like Disney, but a fraction of why I enjoy it so much is because of the breath it gives me. I can enjoy myself and be relaxed. It is so rare that when I find something that gives me that, I hold on tight to it. I would rather sit home and watch a Disney movie or documentary than be thrown into a group of people gossiping and partying on a Friday night because one of the two gives me that breath. 

I tend to be self-critical of my house. It’s not the prettiest, the newest, or the cleanest, but it is perfectly shaped with the sketches of my brother and me growing up. There are scratches behind our basement door from where we threw the door open too fast a few too many times. There is a single board on our stairs that, if you catch the right way, will fling out and cause a perfect tripping hazard. There are scratches on the floor in our living room where, every spring, I drag my dance bag to set it up for the competition season. Some objects have found permanent homes throughout the years. In our kitchen, we have fairy lights hanging over the window above the sink that were hung one Christmas and never made it down and an Alexa that sits on the corner counter between the stove and the sink. When the overhead lights are off, and the Alexa is turned up with whatever music suits my mood, this is when I can take that gulping breath. But, I need to be dancing. Not dancing like jumping up and down and twirling aimlessly with no care, but dancing creatively: moving with the beats and tones of the music, letting emotions out with purpose, and balancing between each moment, thinking just enough for the movements to connect like a string, but not enough to overthink anything. I always get yelled at for dancing in my kitchen, and it is a hazard. I always end up smacking a leg against a table and my finger goes numb from hitting the corner of the fridge. But something about it lets me breathe. The way my kitchen is set up is not ideal either, so I never really dance full out, but I have enough space to move and express however I feel fit. Sometimes the music is quiet when everyone else is home, but other times when I’m alone, I let the volume fill the house and block out any thought that tries to overtake my mind. 

There are a lot of places or moments that manage to do the opposite and give me enhanced anxiety. It’s not even that they necessarily make me anxious, but they just give me time to think and then continue to overthink. Take cars for example: sometimes I love them; I can listen to music, watch TikTok, or do whatever seems fit for how I’m feeling while being completely relaxed. Yet, they also can give me time to think and ponder all that is happening around me, whether in the past, present, or future. When trying to think of other moments I can breathe, I freeze. It seems I happen to be just anxious enough that it’s hard to think of any other times that I’m not. 

The last one is specific, and not one that could fall into a repeated moment, but a single moment. During winter break, we were at a beach in the Florida Keys, but it was overflowing with barrels of seaweed. Everywhere you looked there was seaweed. In the water, on the sand, the mangroves, everywhere. But, there was a patch of water down the beach, that had the picture-perfect, clear teal water that the Keys are famous for. So, I walked down the beach, playing hopscotch through the crowding seaweed until the rest of the people on the beach resembled ants in the distance, and I reached the perfect water. Reaching that point, I audibly sighed, not worrying about anyone judging me for it. I ended up finding my way back through the water where there was ironically less seaweed to where the people returned to resembling their natural size. I don’t know what was so significant about that moment and location, but it gave the perfect relaxation. 

It seems like every place is random, and it probably is. I don’t think I can ever be completely void of anxiety, but at least in some moments, I am able to take a breath.