It’s a pitch-black night on an Estonian island, and I’m having an anxiety attack.

Just ahead on the narrow road, the light from Kim’s torch skitters over the gravel as she flashes it in an arc towards me. Her bike stays level and continues moving forward: she’s a good enough cyclist to easily maintain her balance with just one hand on the handlebars.

“Flora? Are you OK?”

My bike is snaking and wobbling all over the place. I’ve completely lost my balance. It’s as if cycling in the dark has caused my mind to lose all sense of what’s up and what’s down.

“… Yeah… I’m just… I can’t see…” 

I strain my eyes in the hope of making out the grass verges on either side – but there’s nothing. No streetlights. No moon. Nothing but Kim’s torchlight far ahead, and the pitiful bike light clipped onto my handlebars. It gives off a watery glow which does nothing to reassure me.

I can feel the darkness closing in as my heart pounds, my mouth goes dry and the rushing noise in my ears reaches a crescendo. I’m trying my hardest to keep this anxiety attack totally internal. I really don’t want my friend to see the full enormity of it.

We’re twenty minutes away from the house. How on earth am I supposed to keep going in this state?

I never used to be this anxious.

It feels like a distant memory now, but I was once a much more relaxed traveller. I could arrive at airports with minutes to spare. I used to throw my stuff into a bag and not care if I’d forgotten anything. The idea of activities outside my comfort zone – hiking along narrow mountain passes, crawling underground, opting for adrenaline-fuelled activities – used to be more thrilling than terrifying.

But somewhere down the line, things changed.

If I’ve booked an early flight, I spend all night worrying whether I’ll wake up in time. When I board public transport, I worry if I have enough water or whether I’ll need the bathroom. Thoughts of terrorism and earthquakes are always in the back of my mind.

And although I’ve successfully done it copious times in other countries, apparently now I’m even anxious about riding a bike.

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Read more: The most adventurous travel challenges I’ve ever faced

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What does my anxiety look like?

According to my therapist, I have Generalised Anxiety Disorder. For me, that means dizziness, a speeding heart rate, a pulsing in my fingertips, a sensation like I’m almost outside myself – and usually a firm certainty that I’m in a lot of danger, or possibly going to die.

That stomach-plummeting sense of dread accompanies much of my time, and often it’s related to uncertainty. I can’t seem to handle surprises in the way I used to; like I’m interpreting anything unexpected as a immediate threat instead of its potential to be positive.

And so I feel anxious whenever turbulence rocks my plane; when someone looks suspicious; when I hear raised voices; when a group of teenagers are laughing too loud; when I hear a noise outside my door at night; when a stranger walks past me too fast.

What’s more worrying is when the anxiety suddenly happens out of nowhere, causing me to mentally take stock of what could be causing it. Anxiety begets anxiety, and it can be an exhausting BASTARD.

Where does this anxiety come from?

I’ve always been a somewhat anxious person, but it’s safe to say that my current GAD-level of anxiety stems from grief. It only recently occurred to me that before my dad was dying, I don’t think I automatically assumed every scenario would have the worst possible outcome.

But grief turns expectations on their head. If the loss of my parents, the worst thing I ever imagined, could actually happen – twice – what’s to stop everything else going wrong? 

The problem is that, if left unchecked, this anxiety has the power to totally monopolise my life. Forget turbulent flights – anxiety could stop me taking public transport for fear of a terrorist bomb going off. Forget packing woes – anxiety can prevent me from leaving the house because I can’t decide what clothes to wear.

It came into startling clarity when a therapist illustrated how easily I could never do ‘anything’ again. If I allowed this anxiety to fully take over, I might as well hide forever in an underground bunker in an attempt to counter the ‘what-if’ situations which could possibly befall me.

How much of myself am I willing to lock away in order to feel safe?

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Read more: The self care strategies I use to improve my mental health

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How I deal with my travel anxiety

The first thing I try to remember is that it’s extremely common to feel anxious – particularly when you travel. There’s so much that’s new and confusing, from the language, food and climate to the unsettling sense of isolation.

It took me a long time to admit that I often felt anxious abroad, because I felt like I was betraying my blogging persona of being a ‘strong solo female traveller’. When I wrote about it though, I discovered just how many others felt the same type of travel anxiety as I did.

Here are some of the methods I’ve learned to combat my travel anxiety:

– Going to therapy.

I started going to CBT therapy regularly this year and it’s been a game changer for me. My therapist helps me identify what my main anxiety triggers are, and then we work together on methods I can easily use to combat them.

– Understanding my anxiety triggers.

I’ve learned that I do a lot of ‘predicting the future’ thinking which I then immediately assume will be fact. Same with polarised ‘black & white’ thinking, where I can’t seem to imagine a middle ground. The more I notice my thoughts going down these tracks, the more I can relinquish the habit.

– Establishing a routine.

After years of constant travel, keeping some kind of routine is crucial for me. It can be as small as getting up at the same time each day, finding a nearby cafe to get my coffee from each morning, or making sure I go for a run every few days.

– Outwardly admitting I have anxiety.

I didn’t realise how much this would shift things for me, but explaining my anxious thoughts with other people in the moment they’re happening often manages to pull me out of the process. Case in point: as we flew above Estonia and I felt the turbulence jolt through my nervous system, I told Kim that I was anxious – and she patiently talked me through it until I felt better.

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Read more: Sometimes I’m scared to travel – but I don’t let it stop me

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Facing my anxieties on Kihnu island

Unfortunately I know battling my anxiety is a long-term issue, and there’s always another challenge. So when we arrive on Estonia’s Kihnu island for their annual Ancient Lights celebration and Kim suggests we hire some bikes, I flinch inside.

My immediate thought process? “I haven’t ridden a bike for ages, I won’t be fit enough, I don’t want to, what if I fall off? It’s happened before…”

But one of the only ways to properly explore Kihnu island is on a bike – so I swallow my nervousness, and off we go.

Our reason for visiting Kihnu island is for their annual bonfire celebration at the end of August. At the turn of the season the Baltic countries traditionally light fires along the coastline, bidding farewell to the end of summer and welcoming in the winter dark.

Kihnu is sparsely populated. Only two hundred people call the island home, and they live in four little villages dotted amongst the countryside. There are no street lamps lit each evening. Residents drive their cars or cycle their bikes, and trust in their own abilities to navigate the night.

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Read more: Celebrating Estonia’s ancient bonfire festival

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We spend the afternoon cycling in the sun, and I actually enjoy myself once I get back into the saddle. But by the time we leave the Ancient Lights bonfire festival to cycle back to our guesthouse, it’s close to 11pm. An indisputably dark night: a waxing crescent moon means there isn’t even the thinnest sliver in the sky.

The bonfire light is a distant memory as my bike swerves. I can’t stop my anxieties from multiplying. A car might come out of nowhere and run us down. I’ll veer horribly into the verge and crash and injure myself. Something – anything – unexpected and sudden and sharp and swift is going to happen.

And all of these anxious thoughts are whirling through my head at hyper speed like a crowd of bats at dusk.

My bike swerves yet again, and in the midst of knowing how scared and panicked I am, I nonetheless feel a firmer version of my own voice edging its way to the fore.

“Come on, Flora – it’s not that bad. Nothing’s actually going to happen to you.”

I try my best to throw my imagination back just a few hours to the forest we’d cycled through earlier. The impossibly tall pine trees; the soft light draped between the branches; the sound of the wind buzzing in my ears as I pedalled ever faster down the empty path. The extraordinary sense of exhilaration I felt – something I haven’t felt too often recently.

Buoyed on by this memory, I try to put aside the anxiety this darkness instills in me and do my best to reframe it. I switch on my phone’s torch, tucking it securely into my bra and facing it out towards the road. There’s still not much light, but it’s enough: the heaviness around my vision clears and I find my balance once again.

And as I push into the pedals and begin to move, I suddenly realise what I’ve been missing all this time. The sky above is lit up with thousands upon thousands of stars. There are too many to comprehend. It’s like flecks of white paint sprayed from a brush, or a thousand moths nipping holes in deep dark fabric.

I gasp, swerve, and nearly fall off the bike as I attempt to brake.

“KIM! Kim Kim Kim!!”

She turns, thinking something’s gone wrong – but what I’ve seen flying high above us is an absolutely surreal shooting star; a blinding brightness with a solid thick trail in its wake.

Anxiety can be your superpower (if you let it)

Someone recently told me that far from being a hindrance, anxiety is actually a superpower. Those of us who are constantly primed and alert, noticing all surrounding details, fully feeling everything possible – and even the self-doubt which constantly ricochets around our minds: it all comes together to make us ready for anything.

Don’t let the darkness stop you moving forward. Sometimes it’s there to be embraced.

And sometimes all you need is a bit more light.

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Read more about our adventures on Kihnu island here… 

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Disclaimer: I cycled around Kihnu island thanks to Visit Estonia, but I highly doubt they were expecting me to write about my anxious fears of falling off a bike. Nonetheless, it allowed me to think more deeply about this topic – and for facilitating a night sky I will never forget.

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