Mental Health on Writings of Prathipa K | A life journey

Functioning, Dysfunctioning and Finding my way: My insights from the book An Anxious Achiever by Morra Aarons-Mele

Sun, 12 Apr 2026 18:30:00 +0000

Hello all…this is mostly a review of The Anxious Achiever by Morra Aarons-Mele, but also a little bit about what I have been up to lately.

When Anxiety Looks Like Strength

This book didn’t just resonate with me..it unsettled me a little. Not in a dramatic way, but in that way where you start recognising patterns in yourself that you’ve been living with for so long, you stopped questioning them.

I’ve always lived with anxiety in a way that looks… functional. I show up, I do my work, I take responsibility, I stay ahead of things. And for the longest time, I’ve been calling that strength. It’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve started acknowledging it and trying to understand it. This book felt like fuel to that journey, making me pause again and ask: what if some of that isn’t strength? What if it’s just fear… working really efficiently?

The Cost of Overfunctioning

There’s a part where it talks about overfunctioning and that was uncomfortable. The idea that you take on more, step in, fix things, almost act like others are an extension of you and somehow that’s what gets praised. I’ve always thought that’s what makes me dependable. But reading that it can lead to burnout, frustration and this quiet disappointment when others don’t meet expectations you never even expressed… that stayed with me. And honestly, I learnt this the hard way. Towards the end of my journey in my previous organisation…the one I just recently stepped away from, I started saying “no.” And that’s when I realised how burnt out I actually was. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but suddenly everything felt frustrating. Everything felt heavy.

Performing vs Communicating

Another thing that shifted for me was how the book talks about communication. I’ve always felt this pressure to show up well, speak well, not mess things up…almost like I need to perform. But the book simplifies it so much: you don’t need to perform, you just need to communicate. That felt like reassurance. I’ve been learning this the hard way through my own experiences, even during my palliative care training in Hyderabad. I didn’t realise how much energy I was spending trying to be a certain way instead of just being real.

The Quiet Voice of Impostor Syndrome

And then, impostor syndrome. That constant feeling that maybe I don’t fully deserve to be where I am. Even during my transition from being a transplant coordinator to working in health communication, despite multiple promotions and roles, there’s always been that one voice saying, you’re doing okay, you should be proud… and another one quietly saying, maybe you don’t deserve this, anybody can do this.

Reading that even highly successful people feel this and still don’t internalise their success was both comforting and frustrating. But maybe… it’s okay that it doesn’t just go away.

The Five Things Towards Joy

Towards the end, the author asks a question: how do you take even one small step towards feeling okay or finding joy…when everything feels overwhelming?

And then it offers five suggestions. But they didn’t feel like giving advice. They felt like things I’ve been quietly avoiding.

Getting help when you need it, instead of trying to manage everything on your own. Getting out of your own head…which sounds simple, but when your thoughts keep looping, it’s not. Reminding yourself that you’ve gotten through things before and you probably will again (even though I only remember this on my “good” days lol). Coming back to your values…what you stand for, who you want to be. And finally… finding what brings you joy.

That last one felt the hardest. Because I don’t think I’ve prioritised joy in a long time.

In my previous role, even though I felt a strong sense of purpose, I realised I wasn’t feeling joy anymore. And that’s when I started questioning things. I remember my PG professor always saying, your workplace should feel like “yipeeee” when you go to work. And somewhere along the way, that feeling faded.

That’s when I started asking…what brings me joy?

For me, learning, growing, upgrading myself… that always did. And maybe that’s why stepping away from work to pursue my MPH felt like the right choice. It wasn’t easy…but it felt honest.

Maybe Anxiety Doesn’t Go Away…And That’s OK

Another thing the book made me sit with is this idea that anxiety may never completely go away. And that’s uncomfortable. Because I think I’ve spent a lot of time trying to “fix” myself, to be less anxious, more calm, more like the so-called “non-anxious” people. Especially when people casually say things like “don’t overthink” or “you’re always anxious.”

But the book gently shifts that perspective…it’s not about eliminating anxiety, it’s about understanding it, working with it. And that line…you don’t need to change who you are to succeed, I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear that. Because the truth is… I haven’t really changed. People know me as someone who’s quiet, sometimes socially awkward, yes…anxious. But also someone who still shows up, still does the work, still keeps going.

And towards the end, it brings everything together in a simple, powerful way…you acknowledge the fear, you take care of yourself, you lean on people, you keep going. You feel everything, but you don’t let it stop you. You feel the fear and do your thing anyway.

And that stayed with me.

Because that’s what I’ve been doing all along. Since I was in 7th grade, even before I knew what “anxiety” was. And more consciously in the last few years…learning, unlearning, trying to understand myself better. Showing up. Doing the work. Moving forward. Even when my mind is loud. Even when I doubt myself. I just never called that strength.

This book didn’t fix anything for me. But it reassured me. It reminded me that so many leaders have navigated this. It made me pause and notice things I’ve been avoiding…my patterns, my need for control, my tendency to overfunction, the way I hold back, the thoughts that feel true but maybe aren’t.

And maybe that’s where it starts. Not with fixing everything. Not with becoming someone else. Just… understanding yourself a little more honestly.

A little bit about where I am right now…

The past few weeks have been a mix of anxiety and unexpected calm. Even before quitting my job, I was anxious about being “jobless” for a few months. But lately, I’ve been visiting the BMT unit at RGGGH and ICH…not really working, just being there, meeting my mentor, interacting with my friends there, and other psychosocial and clinical teams.

That space… means a lot to me. It’s the place that humbled me, broke me and also helped me grow. It’s where I reached a low point, but also where I finally sought help and started taking my mental health seriously. Looking back, that moment changed everything. It became less about me, and more about wanting to be better…for the children and patient I work with and for.

And maybe that was my first real step…like the book says, seeking help.

Recently, as I was meeting some of my old colleagues in the Unit, they noticed things…yes, the weight loss which they were concerned about haha, but also something more, in their words ‘A glow’ …A certain clarity. A glow. Maybe even hope.

And I think that comes from working on myself. It’s not easy. Some days are still really hard. Just a couple of days ago, I felt like I was in a dark pit again. But I still functioned…even if it felt like functioning within dysfunction, lol. And some days… are just okay. And I think that’s okay.

Today, I visited the new Advanced Centre of Hemato-Oncology and Transplantation at ICH. When I used to work there, it was just an idea…something I heard about and used to imagine. But seeing it now… it felt surreal.

To have such a facility in a government hospital…the impact it can have, the number of lives it can change despite their socio-economic status…it’s incredible.

And as I walked through those corridors, even with my mind racing ahead (as it always does), I also felt something else…joy. A sense of purpose. And surprisingly, a small clarity about what I might want to focus my MPH research on (which is ironic, because that question usually gives me anxiety).

So yes, I spent the last month worrying about how I would survive being jobless for three months. But now… it feels different. It feels manageable. It feels okay. And maybe that’s enough for now.

I will still have anxiety. And that’s okay.

I’ll just have to keep working on myself, one day at a time, one step at a time, one part of me at a time.

And maybe… that’s how I become a better version of myself.

I hope this book with my journey being shared would help you see that you are not alone, and that it will also help you become a better version of yourself.

Learning to Care by Being Cared For

Sat, 28 Feb 2026 18:30:00 +0000

When “Low” Finally Became “Depressed”

So I’m back with a book review. Or maybe three. But honestly, this feels more like a reflection than a review.

Let’s with I Want to Die but I Want to Eat Tteokbokki and its Part II by Baek Sehee. I was already feeling low when I picked it up, and my physical health wasn’t cooperating either.

The book itself is hard to categorise, and I think that’s why it works. It’s not a memoir in the dramatic sense. Not self-help. Not a psychology textbook. It’s basically therapy sessions, recorded conversations between Sehee and her psychiatrist. The title…Wanting to die, but still wanting to eat.** Despair & appetite coexisting. Hopelessness and craving sitting next to each other. That contradiction felt very human to me.**

Sehee wrote about **functioning depression, the kind where nothing externally collapses, but internally everything feels heavy. You go to work. You reply to messages. You say “I’m fine.” That part hit me hard. **I’ve spoken openly about anxiety for years, but I had never actually used the word depression. Not publicly. Not even openly in therapy. I would say I feel low. I feel empty. I feel off. But I avoided that word.

Lately, I’ve been feeling very low. And at the same time, my physical health has been acting up too. It honestly feels like my mind and body decided to team up. Through all of this, my husband has been my constant, patient and supportive.

For the first time, at my absolute lowest, I said it out loud: “I think I’m depressed.” I said it to my husband. And it took courage I didn’t realise I’d been withholding. When I tried explaining how I’d been feeling, he unintentionally invalidated it. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he wanted to distract me from it, lighten it, fix it. And I broke down. I sobbed in a way I hadn’t in a long time. But that was okay too. He is learning, just like I am. We’re figuring this out in real time. And in his own way, he’s been giving me what I actually need…time, rest, space, quiet support. I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

Can an Advocate Admit She’s Not Okay?

What feels strange is this… I advocate for mental health publicly. I write about emotional wellbeing. And yet I hesitated to label my own state honestly. Even when I was feeling worse, I kept pushing myself. At work, when someone asked how I was, the automatic reply came… “badiya (excellent).” Day after day. Even when I secretly wished someone would just say, “Take a break.”

Sometimes it feels like “fake it till you make it”… or maybe more honestly, “fake it till you break it.”

Sometimes I worry, what if being this raw becomes a problem for me? I work in public health. I advocate for mental health. What if people stop taking me seriously? What if they think I’m unstable?

But then I flip the question. If the best neurologist in the country had brain surgery, recovered and continued practicing… would we trust him less? Or would we still want him for his expertise? Just because he needed treatment for his brain doesn’t make him any less of an expert.

So why should I feel ashamed about navigating my mental health while working in the same field?

Managing, Not Magically Fixing

Like Sehee wrote, she has held the hands of many people already and was ready to hold many more. (Sadly, she is no more.) That line stays with me. My experience doesn’t disqualify me. It deepens me. It makes me more aware, more compassionate, more real.

She mentioned in her book that she **stopped chasing the idea of being “completely cured.” She consciously removed that phrase from her vocabulary. Depression, for her, isn’t a flu of the mind that simply passes. It’s closer to a chronic condition that requires management. That honesty felt grounding. Not hopeless… just realistic. **And in being that raw and real, it makes me acknowledge my mental health and to be realistic too. To work on myself. And in doing so, to show up for others with more empathy and compassion.

And considering today is also Self-Injury Awareness Day, maybe this is the right moment to say what Sehee mentioned so gently… let’s talk about it without judgement. Let’s seek help. You are not alone. It is nothing to be ashamed of.

Dignity Is Relational

Around the same time, I was reading Dignity in Care by Dr Harvey Max Chochinov. And that book shifted something in a very different way.

Dr Chochinov argues that dignity is not about politeness. It’s about inherent worth. And more importantly, it’s relational. People feel dignified based on how they perceive themselves being seen. His framework… the ABCDs of dignity-conserving care makes this practical: Attitude. Behaviour. Compassion. Dialogue.

It’s not complicated medicine. It’s human medicine. Sitting at eye level. Asking permission. Listening fully. Seeing the person, not just the diagnosis.

And then he introduces something powerful: the Golden Rule (“treat others as you would want to be treated”) to what he calls the Platinum Rule, asking the patient directly how they want to be treated . That subtle shift moves care from assumption to respect. It requires clinicians to step outside their own values and ask.

He shares a haunting anecdote about a physician dismissing paperwork needed for an anticipated home death, telling a nurse the family could “sit tight” with the body until morning. Technically, perhaps not an emergency. But relationally? Devastating. A failure not of medicine, but of imagination.

There is also that sharp distinction he makes.. healthcare versus “healthcaring.” Evidence-based skill, efficiency and knowledge matter. But “compassion is what separates healthcare from healthcaring.” Healthcaring is not just what we do to patients. It is how we are with them.

It Wasn’t About the Fan

Reading that while navigating my own physical pain made it deeply personal.

For the longest time, my pain was brushed aside. Random clinic visits. Temporary fixes. Until I found a doctor in Chennai who simply believed me. Didn’t minimize it. Didn’t question it. Just acknowledged it. That consistency felt safe.

But the last couple of months were different. The pain worsened, especially in my legs. My appetite dipped further. Walking… something I used to do 1.5 km to and from work every day became harder (forget about the 10kms early morning daily walks, trekkings and running marathons). I barely manage the return walk now, handing my bags to my husband so I can just focus on getting home. And still, I kept telling myself I should be doing more. Individuals with Fibromyalgia are told to stay active. So I pushed.

There was one continuous week without sleep because of pain. My husband insisted I work from home that particular day. I still went in. When someone asked how I was, I said “badiya.” Of course. Later, someone in my team switched on the fan after I had already asked them not to. And I just snapped. “Could you please switch the damn fan off? I’m sick.” And I cried.

It wasn’t about the fan. It was about my mind and body being at their lowest, and me still pretending I was fine. I washed my face and worked through the rest of the day.

Rest. Sleep. And Support. That’s It.

But I realised I couldn’t continue like this. I couldn’t wait another month to see my Chennai doctor. I needed to get checked.

So I booked an appointment in Delhi. I didn’t even research the doctor properly, which is unlike me. But I went. And he was kind.

He didn’t deny my pain. Didn’t dismiss it. When I kept explaining how I wasn’t walking enough, almost defending myself, he simply said: rest. Sleep. That’s it. No guilt. No lecture. Just acknowledgement.

Then I spoke about my appetite. How I still can’t eat lunch properly. How if I try to eat and it makes me not feel good while at work. That’s partly why I skip it. How I try again at home. He looked at my husband, smiled slightly and said, “Well, then we know the reason for the weight loss, don’t we?” We all smiled. And not once did he say, “You need to try harder to eat.” Not once did he lecture me. Again, he came back to the same thing… rest. Sleep. Some tests. Support.

And maybe this is also why, recently, I started an Instagram page called @ayooitsfibro, partly sarcastic, partly survival. A space to acknowledge what I’m feeling in real time. To talk about chronic pain without sugarcoating it. To share research-based evidence so people living with fibromyalgia and other chronic conditions don’t feel like it’s “all in their head.” It’s my way of turning lived experience into something that might make someone else feel less alone. If you’d like, you can take a look.

And here again I witnessed what Dr Chochinov was saying. Technical competence matters. Medication matters. But what preserves dignity is how you are made to feel in that room… whether you’re treated as a case or as a person.

Just Being Seen

He insists that dignity in care matters at the beginning of life, at the end of life, and everywhere in between. It’s not just doctors and nurses. It’s everyone… from clinicians to receptionists. Because the “tone or fragrance of care” shapes every encounter.

He ends with a mirror, reminding clinicians that their contribution goes beyond technical skill. That line felt personal.

Because ultimately, this book is not accusing healthcare professionals. It is inviting them. Inviting all of us.. especially those of us working in health systems, to remember that patients are people with feelings that matter.

Between Sehee and Chochinov, I realised something simple.

Internally, we struggle to name our pain. Externally, we hope someone will recognise it without making us defend it.

We don’t just want treatment. We want acknowledgement.

Not diagnoses. Not performance. Just being seen.

Learning to Care by Being Cared For

And maybe that’s the real thread running through all of this… whether it’s mental health, chronic pain, or healthcare systems.

We’re all just trying to be honest about what hurts… and hoping someone meets us there with a little less judgement and a little more compassion.

As I continue to pursue my MPH this July, I’m excited to grow into a stronger, more informed, and more humane version of myself not just academically, but as a public and mental health advocate who never forgets the person behind the pain.