You aren't serious about your anxiety and I'll prove it to you with a story.

It was like a scripted horror movie scene and I was the helpless victim quivering behind the tool shed.

Not 1, not 2, or even three, but FOUR boxes of peanut M&Ms surrounded our seats in the theater that humid spring evening. We were there to see the musical production of Disney's "Frozen" - (an incredible show by the way) and had just taken our seats in the Loge.

Of course the concession stand only served peanut candy. Of course all the people in the Loge decided it was the perfect night to break New Year's resolutions and eat a bunch of candy. And of course, my daughter just happens to have a severe peanut allergy.

The first box I spotted was being ravenously consumed by a man directly below my daughter. "Okay." I thought, "I can handle this." I tapped him on the shoulder and informed him of my daughter's allergy, not to ask him to stop eating, but just asking him to be aware.

He seemed a bit put off, but muttered something indicating he had heard me and turned back around. "Phew, maybe we're good now." I naively reassured myself.

Like a barrel-man in the crow's nest of a ship looking for enemy vessels, I spotted another candy box to our left right beside our family's grouping of seats. This time, a middle aged woman was carefully selecting each piece of candy from her box and eating them slowly.

On the row above us 2 more boxes joined the anxiety inducing peanut chorus. Another man towards the end of the row away from us and a teenage girl directly behind my wife. The excited young girl posed the most severe threat, I reasoned, since the angled seats put my daughter directly in the crosshairs of any food inadvertently leaving her mouth.

Here's what my anxious thoughts started telling me like a skipped record on repeat:

An unexpected cough or sneeze would surely send peanut remnants flying onto my daughter who would immediately touch her mouth and start having an allergic reaction, threatening anaphylaxis.

Here I was, an island of fear surrounded by peanuts on all sides and the show hadn't even started yet.

The fear of my daughter having an allergic reaction is one of my most intense anxiety triggers and one that I currently struggle with the most. It's a severe enough allergy that we carry epinephrine everywhere we go and have annual visits with an allergist to check levels and discuss any progress or new treatments.

That night, however, even my hand resting on the bag with epipens just inside wasn't enough to calm my anxiety.

My eyes darted back and forth moving swiftly to each seat that had candy, making sure none was falling carelessly to the ground or leaving the box, hand, mouth circle of trust. I kept turning my head to get a peripheral view of the seat behind us and would do a full turn anytime I heard loud talking or laughing to make sure the teenage girl wasn't sending peanut missiles our way.

This cycle of checking each potential threat was supercharging the fear inside me and I could feel myself getting more and more anxious.

My heart rate spiked when the show started as the theater went black. The main tool keeping me somewhat stable was now gone as I lost visual confirmation of the candy boxes.

At that point the fearful thoughts in my head ratcheted up to full blast and my nervous demeanor became an avalanche of worst case scenario thoughts that I was believing was about to happen.

I tapped my wife and said something to the effect of "I don't think I can do this", sweat starting to build on my forehead and brow.

I was absolutely convinced that something terrible was going to happen at any moment and was completely paralyzed to regain control of the situation.

By then, I had no idea what was happening in the show. They were a few songs in and my daughter seemed to be enjoying herself despite my misery.

Then, it happened.

The girl behind us coughed which sent me leaping out of my seat, turning around, and inspecting the ground, seats, and my daughter in a frantic search for any peanut remnants.

People were staring at me. My wife was clearly embarrassed. But I was in a full blown panic.

I barely managed to get the words out in between my borderline hyperventilating as I snatched the bag from the floor and started to move towards the stairs. "We need to go, now!" I said almost in tears.

My wife grabbed our daughter, and followed me out to the hallway where, in the extra lighting, I performed one final anxious inspection before we hurried out to the car.

Except that's not what happened.

You see, I'm serious about my anxiety and have taken decades of time to persistently work on it, understand it, and ultimately conquer it.

If I had continued to follow the recipe we're all given for how to manage anxiety, a recipe I followed for nearly 30 years, what I described above is most certainly how that story would have unfolded.

How do I know? Because countless stories did happen to me that way for decades.

If I wasn't trying to control external circumstances, I was searching for magic cures or distracting myself and running away. If an intense trigger overcame me, I would break down in a panic, hyperventilate, or make irrational decisions trying any and everything to get out of fight or flight.

This is what most people do and why most people aren't serious about diminishing their anxiety.

When something isn't easy we shy away from it. We want comfort or a quick fix. Instant gratification. But anxiety laughs at quick fixes, feasts on magic cures, and doesn't have the word "easy" in its vocabulary.

Our anxiety truly is relational just as a relationship with a friend or loved one would be. So if we're serious about improving our experience of anxiety, we must work to understand the one with whom we are in relation. It's an ever-evolving, dynamic relationship that must be tended to with diligence and care.

Becoming serious about our anxiety requires first bravely turning and facing it with an intention to understand it. It’s scary and certainly not fun, but it is required in order to make significant change.

Next, a commitment to put in whatever effort is necessary for however long the time horizon lasts, is called for. This is what I refer to as a “practitioner mindset.” The idea that there is no end game and I will remain vigilant at all times.

This is why I think most people are at a disadvantage due to our conditioning to want things easy. Improving anxiety might require 20 years of hard work, incremental progress, and a ton of practice. But at that end of that road is equilibrium, contentment, and oftentimes peace.

For me, it took a decade.

Was ten years worth of the hardest personal work I've ever done worth it for 1 hour of a musical with my daughter? Absolutely.

In case you're wondering what really happened that night at the theater, everything I described before the lights went out did happen. There were 4 boxes of peanut candy surrounding us that night, yet I was in control of the situation and did not succumb to the worst case scenario thoughts that kept coming up.

Had I not taken the painful journey of transforming my relationship with anxiety from pain to power, the story I laid out above would have been my experience of that event.

Instead, I employed my anxiety tool-kit, relaxed into my seat, and enjoyed the show, culminating with an incredible moment right as Elsa sang the line from 'Let It Go', "And the fears that once controlled me can't get to me at all."

My question to you is - do you want fleeting moments of relief or a powerful, long lasting transformation?

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