The Gremlin Stays: How I'm Reclaiming the Wheel from Anxiety and ADHD

From sleepless nights and silent panic to Peloton-fueled clarity. This is how I’m making fear a passenger, not the driver.

The Breaking Point

Back in January, I couldn’t sleep. Not because I had too much to do or couldn’t unplug, but because my chest felt like it was being crushed under an invisible weight. A boulder that rolled in every time I closed my eyes.

I was fifty pounds heavier, drinking too much, eating to numb the noise, and barely functioning beneath the endless chatter of anxiety and ADHD. These weren’t distant diagnoses. They were my full-time co-pilots. Most days, they drove.

There was no sudden breakthrough. No perfect moment when everything changed. Just a quiet breaking point. One night, I made a pact with myself. It wasn’t a New Year’s resolution. It was a survival promise. Take back one thing. Just one.

Pedaling Toward Clarity

I started pedaling again.

Peloton rides weren’t just workouts. They became my drug. Not a high, but a lifeline. The rhythm, the sweat, the movement, all of it created a silence in my head I hadn’t felt in months. It gave me something to hold onto. Something that made me feel present again.

The weight started to come off. Even more importantly, I started to feel like myself again.

I wasn’t chasing fitness. I was chasing stillness. I needed to prove to myself that I could reclaim what fear had been stealing.

Building Momentum

That discipline carried over into other parts of my life. I showed up sharper at work. I connected more honestly with people I care about. I began to hear a voice I’d been missing. Not the loud one filled with panic and doubt. The quieter one underneath it all.

I dropped 45 pounds. The pressure on my chest started to lift. Sleep returned, slowly, in small waves. I drank less. I ate with intention. The gremlin, the one whispering worst-case scenarios and subtle sabotage, finally started to lose volume.

I wasn’t cured. But I had momentum. And for the first time in a long while, I felt in control.

The Return of the Fog

Then came the relapse. A soft one. Nothing dramatic. Just fog.

The past couple of weeks have felt heavy. Directionless. The kind of drift where you forget how good it felt to be clear. And the gremlin didn’t come charging in. It crept. With self-doubt. With hesitation. With that quiet voice that says maybe you weren’t built to hold the line after all.

A New Framework

The old me would have scrambled to fix it. I would have tried to silence the gremlin. Erase it. Pretend it wasn’t there.

But then I started reading Fear Is My Homeboy by Judi Holler.

That book is shifting something in me. Not because it says fear will go away, but because it reframes what fear is allowed to do. It’s not an enemy. It’s a roommate. You can’t kick it out, but you can stop letting it redecorate your mind.

I don’t need to destroy my gremlin. I need to set boundaries. It can stay. It can talk. But it doesn’t get to drive.

How I Will Lead

I’m resetting the bar.

The first few chapters of Fear Is My Homeboy didn’t just inspire me. They interrupted the cycle. They reminded me that fear doesn’t vanish. It gets managed. What I’m building now is structure, clarity, and non-negotiables. Tools that help me take control and keep it.

This next chapter is about showing up with intention. Not to chase ready, but to build resilient habits I can return to when things get loud again.

Exercise is no longer a phase or a patch. It’s embedded. It’s the thing that steadies me. It gets me out of my head and back into my body. I can’t treat it like an optional habit anymore because it’s not. It’s how I metabolize anxiety, sharpen focus, and stay connected to myself.

Letting It Stay on My Terms

This isn’t a story about weight loss. It’s not a redemption arc or a quick fix for ADHD and anxiety.

This is about recognizing the voice that tries to shrink me. Naming it. Accepting that it might never leave but refusing to let it drive.

My gremlin still shows up. It tells me I’m behind. That I blew it. That someone else is doing it better.

I don’t fight it anymore. I acknowledge it. I say, “I hear you.” Then I get on the bike. I write. I show up.

And that’s how I’ll keep showing up. Not perfectly. Not fearlessly. But fully.