Confessions of an Anxious Attacher

For most of my life, I didn’t understand why relationships felt so overwhelming and often frantic—why I could go from feeling euphoric and deeply connected to panicked and insecure in a matter of hours. I thought maybe I just loved “hard” or cared more than others.  Why was closeness in my relationships so important to me and why did distance feel so scary?   What I didn’t realize was that my behaviors weren’t about intensity or passion—they were rooted in an anxious attachment style I developed early in life. 

Growing up, emotional safety felt unpredictable. Love and attention were present at times—tender and affirming—but just as often, they were inconsistent, overshadowed by distraction, emotional volatility, unavailability, or even intrusive behavior.  I internalized the message that love had to be chased and that connection was something I had to earn-that I had to behave properly to get the emotional care I needed. I became hyper-aware of emotional shifts in others, constantly scanning for signs of rejection or withdrawal.  If someone pulled away, I panicked—not just emotionally, but physically.  It felt like a threat to my survival and like I was constantly asking my partner the same question on repeat: “Can I count on you? Are you really here for me?  Do you love me?”—and the moment I got reassurance, I'd need it all over again.

As I grew older, I channeled that energy into my romantic relationships, often taking on the role of the pursuer.  Initially, I believed it was normal to overthink texts, replay conversations, and obsess over why someone hadn’t called back—after all, it was my responsibility to keep them close, wasn’t it?  I didn’t realize that my nervous system was dysregulated—locked into a loop of hypervigilance and fear. I needed constant reassurance since I was outsourcing my sense of security to others. I struggled to trust that people would stick around. I often felt like I was “too much,” while simultaneously resenting partners for not giving me more.  My longing for closeness ran so deep that I often abandoned myself in the process—gripping tightly to connection in ways that ultimately undermined the very relationships I was trying to preserve.  People-pleasing became my strategy to keep others close and avoid the pain of being rejected or abandoned. To make matters worse, I often gravitated to partners with an avoidant attachment style believing if I could just win them over, I’d finally feel worthy.  What I didn’t realize was that real, grounded love starts with offering that worthiness and acceptance to myself before offering it to others.

I now understand that anxious attachment is more than just relationship anxiety. It’s a survival strategy that forms when your early needs for emotional consistency aren’t reliably met. I learned to adapt by becoming extremely attuned to others, often at the expense of my own needs. My self-worth became tethered to how others perceived and responded to me. When people pulled away, I blamed myself. When things were good, I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

In relationships, I often found myself over-giving—trying to prove my worth in hopes that it would secure love. I didn’t know how to be alone without feeling abandoned. I apologized even when I wasn’t wrong. I read into every delay, every sigh, every unanswered message. And when my partner needed space, I spiraled—interpreting it as rejection or confirmation that I was unlovable.

This dynamic wasn’t just exhausting for me—it was painful for my partners, too. Many times, I unknowingly created the very distance I feared. The more I clung, the more they pulled away. The more they pulled away, the more I panicked. It became a vicious cycle that left both of us hurt, confused, and disconnected.

Therapy became a turning point for me. Naming my attachment style for the first time felt like someone had handed me a mirror. I wasn’t “crazy,” “needy,” or “broken.” I was simply reacting to old wounds that hadn’t yet healed. My therapist helped me explore the roots of my anxiety, and I slowly started building internal safety—something I never really had before.

One of the biggest shifts came when I stopped expecting others to regulate my emotions and started learning how to do that for myself. At first, it felt foreign, overwhelming and almost impossible. But over time, I began to recognize my triggers, pause before reacting, and ask myself: What am I feeling right now and what do I actually need?  Sometimes, it was as simple as taking a long walk, pausing for a deep breath, journaling, or grounding myself through yoga. Soothing music also became a powerful tool for calming my nervous system. And at times, healing came through reaching out to a safe friend—not to be fixed or reassured, but simply to feel seen and connected.

I also began noticing the ways I used certain behaviors to cope—whether it was people-pleasing, self-abandoning, obsessing, trying to control others, or reaching out excessively when feeling disconnected.  These weren’t just bad habits; they were my attempts to regulate overwhelming emotions and feel some sense of control. I had to learn how to sit with discomfort and regulate it myself without spiraling into self-blame or lashing out at others.

One of the hardest lessons has been learning to tolerate space in relationships without assuming the worst. When a partner pulls back now, I don’t always go straight to panic-I am able to challenge the story I’m writing in my head. I still feel the old fear rise up—but now, I know how to hold it with compassion instead of letting it take the wheel. I’m learning to trust that distance doesn’t always mean disconnection, and that I can be okay even when things feel uncertain.

Today, I’m still on this journey. I still get triggered and have moments where I overthink, crave more connection than is available, or feel tempted to compromise my own needs to maintain closeness in my relationships.

But I’ve learned to slow down, stay present, and speak up for what I need without shame. I’ve learned that secure love doesn’t come from chasing or proving—it comes from showing up as I am and allowing others to do the same.

For those of you who resonate with anxious attachment, healing is possible!   Your need for closeness isn’t shameful—it’s human. What you didn’t receive as a child was not your fault, but you do have the power to give it to yourself now . It takes time, self-compassion, and support—but it’s absolutely within reach.

And when shame creeps in, remember: you’re not alone. Telling our stories in safe places is how shame loses its grip. This is mine—and if it sounds like yours, I hope it brings you the kind of peace I’m finally learning to find.