Mental Health
Photo by Anne Nygård on Unsplash
If someone had told me ten years ago that I’d be where I am today—relatively happy, emotionally stable, and doing work I’m passionate about—I would have laughed in their face. No, scratch that; I probably would have just stared at them blankly, eyes glazed over, wrestling with the dark demons of depression and anxiety that had kept me shackled for so long.
Photo by Jill Heyer on Unsplash
But hey, life has a funny way of pulling the rug out from under you when you least expect it. One minute you’re coasting along, convinced you’ve got it all figured out, and the next you’re flat on your back, wondering what the hell just happened. For me, that rug-pulling moment came in the form of a mental health crisis that nearly broke me.
It was the spring of 2014, and I was a few months into my dream job as an investigative journalist for a major newspaper. I should have been over the moon, right? Chasin’ down hard-hitting stories, speaking truth to power, and feeling that sweet adrenaline rush that only comes from knowing your words have the power to inspire change.
Except I wasn’t over the moon at all. In fact, I was drowning. The constant pressure to deliver, the looming deadlines, the self-doubt, and the fear of failure—it all became too much. Before I knew it, I was trapped in a vicious cycle of anxiety and depression that left me feeling utterly hopeless.
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I tried to power through it, convincing myself that this was just part of the gig. But the harder I pushed, the worse things got. My work suffered, my relationships crumbled, and on my darkest days, I didn’t even want to get out of bed. Something had to give.
That something turned out to be my career in journalism. I quit my job, much to the confusion and concern of my colleagues and loved ones. But I knew in my heart that if I didn’t make a change, I might not make it through this trial intact.
So I did what any sane person would do in the throes of a mental health crisis: I ran away to join the circus. Okay, not a literal circus (though that would have made for one hell of a story), but I did take up juggling as a way to quiet my mind and bring some much-needed levity into my life.
At first, it was just a distraction, a way to keep my hands and brain occupied when the demons felt particularly unrelenting. But as I got better and started taking classes, something shifted. Juggling became more than just a hobby—iit was a metaphor for life itself.
Think about it: when you’re juggling, you have to keep a bunch of different balls (or clubs, or flaming torches, if you’re feeling particularly daring) in constant motion. One false move, and the whole thing comes crashing down around you. But if you stay focused, breathe deeply, and trust in your ability to adapt and react in the moment, those balls just keep on spinning.
It’s a delicate dance, one that requires immense concentration and presence of mind. And isn’t that what mental health is all about? Keeping all of those swirling thoughts, emotions, and external pressures up in the air and making constant micro-adjustments to maintain balance and forward momentum?
As I got better at juggling, I started noticing changes in my overall well-being. My anxiety lessened, my mood stabilized, and I found myself laughing more—actually, genuinely laughing—something I hadn’t done in what felt like an eternity. Juggling had become my own personal juggling act, helping me keep all the different aspects of my life—work, relationships, and self-care—in harmony.
Of course, it wasn’t just the juggling itself that facilitated this transformation (although I’d be lying if I said pulling off a perfect seven-ball shower pattern didn’t give me a serious endorphin rush). A big part of my journey involved reframing my mindset and embracing a few key life lessons that have stuck with me to this day.
First and foremost, you can’t control everything, so stop trying. This was a tough one for me, a former adrenaline-junkie journalist who thought she could bend the world to her will through sheer force of effort. Juggling taught me that sometimes you have to surrender, let those balls fall, and then have the resilience to scoop them back up and try again. Life doesn’t always go according to plan, and the harder you grasp, the more it slips through your fingers.
This brings me to my next lesson: mindfulness is everything. Being present in the moment, taking things one breath at a time, and quieting that endless string of anxious thoughts long enough to appreciate the simple joys in front of you—that’s where real happiness lies. Trust me, once you’ve managed to get six clubs flying in a smooth, seamless pattern, it’s pretty hard not to bask in that moment of serenity.
Finally (and perhaps most importantly), I’ve learned that humor and playfulness are powerful tools in the fight against mental illness. When I was in the depths of depression, everything felt so damn heavy and serious all the time.
But making juggling a part of my life reminded me not to take myself too seriously, to embrace a childlike sense of wonder, and to find moments of levity even in my darkest hours.
These days, when I feel the darkness creeping back in, I don’t fight it—I juggle it, quite literally. I pull out my clubs and I play, letting the rhythmic motions and occasional dropped props put things back into perspective. Sometimes I mix it up by juggling something silly, like frozen veggie cakes or inflatable pool toys (juggling brides is a hit at weddings, by the way). Once I’m smiling and centered again, I can move forward with a clear head and an open heart.
Now, I’m not saying juggling is a magical cure-all for mental illness. I’ve had to do a lot of hard work in therapy, combined with self-care practices like yoga, meditation, and spending quality time with loved ones. And yeah, there are days when the darkness still feels all-consuming, when juggling holds zero appeal, and I have to dig even deeper to get through.
But overall, I’ve come to view my mental health journey not as a battle to be won but as a juggling act to be constantly fine-tuned and mastered. Some days I drop all the balls, and other days my patterns are flawless. The key is having the tools to pick them back up when they fall and the resilience to keep on juggling no matter what gets tossed my way.
These days, you can catch me juggling away at my local park, cracking wise with the kids and community members who come to watch. I’ve even started teaching juggling classes, using the art form as a vehicle for talking about mental health and mindfulness.
Maybe I’ll never be a globetrotting journalist changing the world. But if I can use my own juggling journey to put a few smiles on faces and help people embrace the light and the chaos in a more playful way? Well, that’ll be a story worth writing.
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My Marbles: A Juggler’s Guide to Mental Health was originally published in Mindful Mental Health on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.