In the last couple of weeks, while I was busy facilitating training sessions, I started to notice something I could no longer ignore. It showed up in the room, but not in an obvious way.
I could sense that some of the participants showed visible anxiety to the extent that they did not really hear what was being said. I could see something was not right, but I did not have to rely on my own interpretation. When I approached two individuals privately—either after a session or during a break—they told me themselves what was going on. The only question that I asked them was, "Are you OK?"
And that is when it became clear.
They told me that they could not recall something I had said 10 minutes earlier. They had to write things down to remember, then go back to their notes to recall. They also shared that their minds were occupied with so many things outside of the room that it was difficult for them to stay present (the spillover effect of the workload that they need to contend with and other relational stressors).
What stood out for me was not just the forgetting. It was what sat underneath it.
These were people trying to function in an environment where their anxiety was already taking over their ability to calm themselves down. It was as if the anxiety occupied so much space that there was very little capacity left to process, think, or even stay present in the moment.
In listening to them, I became aware that both were using medication prescribed by their doctors. When their anxiety increased, they would contact their doctor, receive a prescription, and begin taking the medication. (and in one case, they would actually tell the doctor what they need). Then, once things felt more manageable, they would stop abruptly.
That pattern concerned me, not because of the medication itself, but because of how it was being used.
What stood out even more was the contradiction. They were willing to approach their doctor to prescribe medication, yet when I asked whether they had considered seeing a psychiatrist, both responded with a clear and immediate no.
There was no hesitation. Just no. I found that worrisome.
I also found myself questioning how much follow-up there was from the doctor’s side on matters like this, which I consider to be very serious. The pattern seemed to be that they would reach out, receive a prescription, and then manage it on their own.
I do not believe a personal physician should be the only place someone goes to in a situation like this. This makes sense as a first step, but it isn't a full response. When something is affecting your ability to function, it requires more than a single point of care.
At the same time, I was aware that these were only two individuals I had the opportunity to engage with because I took the initiative to approach them. And that left me with a question I could not shake. How many others were in that room that I was not even aware of?
Because there seemed to be something deeper underneath all of this.
On the one hand, some people believe that if something is wrong, medication is the immediate answer—they will reach for it quickly. On the other hand, there is another group who, no matter how difficult things become, will not consider medication at all—two strong and opposing views.
But what I experienced in the room made it more complex than that.
When anxiety reaches a certain level, simply suggesting to someone that they consider medication does not work. At that point, the anxiety is already affecting their cognitive functioning. They do not fully hear. They do not fully engage. It is almost as if they become disconnected from what is happening inside of them.
And that is where my thinking shifted.
If medication can stabilize that state, it serves a purpose similar to a cast on a broken leg. The cast is not the solution. It is a temporary structure that allows the body to stabilize and recover. In some cases, it is needed for longer. In others, it is short-term support.
The issue, as I saw it, was not medication itself. It was how people related to it. And underneath that, something else.
A stigma.
The belief that I should be able to handle this on my own.
The idea that needing support means I am not strong enough.
What stayed with me was not just what people shared, but how quickly certain options were dismissed. It was not uncertainty. It was an immediate and firm no. I wonder how many people are struggling like this and choose to deal with it on their own?