Last time I told you about burning out. About the panic attacks, the bathroom breaks, the little pills that turned out to be magic beans. I left you with a question: now what?

This is part of the answer.

Taking medication for your mental health is like drinking a protein shake after a workout. It enables you to build muscle. At the gym, that looks like biceps and abs. In your mind, it looks like self-esteem and confidence.

I used to think that the only way to live life was to raw dog it (pardon my language). I thought the most authentic way to live was to do it the way you were born to - unassisted, unmedicated, just you versus the world. That was until I discovered the power of medication.

I loved the effects. I could think clearer. Hear my own thoughts. Bask in the sun and not worry about getting burned - metaphorically, of course.

As an Asian girl, I’ve always felt this yearning to be more than I am. I’ve tried to live up to expectations, be the good girl, play the piano, get good grades. You know the story. Included in that package was not going to the doctor (for physical health or mental health reasons). If I got sick, I told my mom (she was a doctor). But it was usually more of a risk to skip school than to be sick, so I’d just suffer through it and go. That was the template: endure it, keep moving.

It wasn’t until I became a proper adult that I started to see someone. My therapist told me that it’s okay to get help if it works. Such simple words. Such direct meaning. And yet I really struggle with this concept.

And that’s the magic word. Struggle. It almost feels like I was meant to struggle. That that’s the whole point of life.

Living without meds is like playing on hard mode. And you know I love a challenge.

It’s like setting the CPUs to Hard in Mario Kart so that victory tastes even sweeter. But apparently life isn’t a video game. It’s already hard as is, isn’t it? So why do I feel the need to experience the absolute extremes of the emotional spectrum? The euphoria. The despair. It makes life more colorful, doesn’t it?

Here’s the thing, though. You lift weights to get stronger. And you drink a protein shake afterward because it maximizes muscle repair and supports gains.

Medication does the same thing. It doesn’t do the work for you. It just makes the work possible. If protein powder “supports gains,” then medication supports growth. And growth is the whole point.

Now that I think about it, maybe I’d go so far as to say that I’m fortunate. I have an avenue that enables me to get more out of life than I ever could on my own.

So if the medication does the heavy lifting so I can actually do the work - what is the work?

That’s what I’ve been figuring out.

“What’s going on with you?” My manager asked.

She knows. I’ve failed at hiding what’s been digging at me from the inside out. The bathroom breaks in an attempt to quell my anxiety. The mornings waking up in panic, unable to catch my breath, like I forgot how to do the one thing my body was supposed to do on its own.

I thought I had it all figured out. I went to business school and recruited into a prestigious consulting firm.

I got staffed on the perfect storm of a case. The travel was hard and the work was harder. As I went back and forth from the east to west coast week after week, I slowly started to burn out. Eventually, I had no choice but to seek help. I was rolled off my project and encouraged to take Short Term Disability - of course, the acronym itself is even loaded with stigma. I couldn’t believe it. The job I had worked tirelessly to get, snatched from me. By whose hands? My own.

I did it to myself. Of course I did. Who else is there to blame? If only I had worked harder or cared less or leaned on my team or what have you. A million things I could have done. Or so I thought.

Getting help was exhausting. While I was fortunate to have access to Lyra (a mental health platform) through my employer, my god was it difficult to navigate. Imagine being in complete panic and then having to fill out a questionnaire. And then having to do it again because the therapist you tried to book was full, so you have to start over. And then do it again. And then again.

Until you find someone. While barely being able to breathe, and temporarily out of work. All because you can’t get the help you’re trying to get. God, it was awful. I have a bone to pick with them. But I digress.

Once I finally made it through the platform and booked the first psychiatrist I could get, then came the waiting. God, so much waiting. When my appointment came, I could. Not. WAIT. to unload all my trauma on this man. Bless his heart. And he pulled through. To CVS I went. Let me tell you, those little pills worked WONDERS.

They may as well have been magic beans.

The panic was gone. I felt fucking fantastic. Who knew I could carry on like so. My world was turned upside down in the best way. I could breathe. I could think. I could THRIVE.

And then came the harder question: now what?