There’s a particular kind of restlessness that comes with OCD. It’s hard to explain -like an itch you cannot scratch, a hum in the background of your mind that never quite quiets. For many years, I struggled to put this into words, especially because my experiences with anxiety and OCD don’t always fit neatly into the categories people expect. OCD, for me, sits somewhere between mental health and neurodivergence. And like many others, I’ve lived much of it behind a mask.
Everyone’s experience is different. That’s part of what makes it so difficult to explain, and to be seen. For many of us who appear "high functioning," the struggles go unnoticed. We’re often labelled overachievers, diligent workers, or perfectionists. But behind those positive traits can lie exhausting cycles of intrusive thoughts, rituals, avoidance, and guilt. You become so skilled at hiding it that even you start questioning if it’s real.
Now, after more than a decade of living with OCD, I finally feel brave enough to talk about it. And yet, finding the words remains difficult. The complexity of OCD, the overlapping symptoms, the cultural silence - these all contribute to a struggle that’s hard to articulate. I didn’t realise the true value of sharing my experience until a student approached me after one of my neurodiversity lectures. She told me that hearing me mention my OCD meant something to her. That there aren’t many people in leadership positions who talk about these things. Her words reminded me that sometimes the ability to speak, even when you doubt yourself, can be a bridge for someone else.
There’s a constant tension for those of us who can “pass” as neurotypical. We worry we’re not “ill enough” to speak, afraid we’re taking up space meant for others. Being able to articulate these experiences doesn’t mean they’re less valid. Sometimes, those who appear the most composed are carrying the heaviest burdens - alone.
My OCD doesn’t look like what people expect. I don’t double-check door locks ten times or fear contamination in a conventional sense. But I do have deeply ingrained rituals. I change my pillowcase every single day, wash clothes after every wear, and reorganise my environment in exact ways. If something deviates from the routine, the anxiety it triggers can escalate into a full-blown panic attack. People often compliment my tidiness or attention to detail. But they don’t see the undercurrent, the overwhelming urge, the paralysis that follows if I don’t comply with the ritual. What looks like discipline is often desperation. It’s not always about being clean or precise; it’s about calming the internal storm, scratching that invisible itch.
The cruel irony of OCD and anxiety is that they thrive in stillness. When I’m busy, I’m okay. When I’m deeply immersed in work or a task, the noise quiets. But the moment things slow down, the intrusive thoughts creep in. Thoughts that ruin the peaceful moments I crave. And because I’ve relied on staying busy for so long, I no longer know what true rest feels like. Even when I do feel calm, guilt slips in, whispering that I should be doing something, fixing something, worrying about something. Relaxation feels unfamiliar, almost wrong. This constant inner tension is one of the hardest parts to explain.
In the last few years, I’ve developed another compulsion: skin picking. It started gradually, almost unnoticed, but has now become another way my anxiety manifests. It’s soothing and shameful at the same time. I often don’t realise I’m doing it until it’s too late. And then comes the guilt spiral - why did I do it, why couldn’t I stop, why does it bring momentary relief when I know the aftermath is regret? This is the thing about OCD: it tricks you into believing that these small acts will give you control or comfort. But more often than not, they offer only temporary relief and long-term exhaustion.
Winston Churchill famously referred to depression as the "black dog." For me, OCD and anxiety are like that too - always there, lingering, even when silent. Some days it snarls, other days it sleeps. But it never truly leaves. I’ve learned to live with it, to build my life around it, to coexist. It’s a habit now. A shadow. A quiet presence that shapes how I move through the world. But I’m learning that speaking up about it, naming it, gives it less power. And maybe, in sharing my story, someone else will feel a little less alone.