Facing the Door: Jerry's Journey Through Anxiety

Facing the Door: Jerry's Journey Through Anxiety

My first experience supporting a student with debilitating anxiety came early in my career, while working in an Alternate School setting. I still remember the very first day I saw him.

I was in the habit of arriving early—before the noise and the chaos of the day began. Mornings were when I felt sharpest, often using that quiet time to tackle paperwork and mentally prepare for the day. My office had a large front window that overlooked the parking lot. On this particular morning, I glanced up and noticed a vehicle idling just outside.

Inside the car sat a father and his teenage son. I could see tension written across their faces as they argued. The boy looked anxious, shoulders hunched, gaze locked on the dashboard. His father gestured toward the school entrance repeatedly. The minutes ticked by—five, ten, then twenty. And then, just like that, they drove away.

This scene repeated itself for a couple of days. On the third morning, I decided to walk outside. I tapped gently on the window, not sure what kind of reaction I’d get. To my surprise, the father rolled down the window and I recognized him immediately—he was someone I had worked with during my own teenage years, a parent I admired and who had, in many ways, been a mentor to me.

We exchanged a warm hello, and then he introduced me to his son, who I’ll call Jerry.

Jerry was shy, eyes cast downward, but polite. His father explained that school had become overwhelming for him—that the anxiety had started out manageable, but had grown to the point where just stepping out of the car felt impossible. I listened. And from that moment, I knew this connection would be built slowly, gently, and with intention.

I turned to Jerry and said, “This is a different kind of school. If you want, you can just come hang out in my room until 8:45. I promise no other students will be there—just you and me. That way, you can start by simply getting used to walking through the front door.”

His eyes lifted slightly, as if the weight on his chest loosened just a little. And that’s how it started.

The first time Jerry walked into the school, his body froze just inside the door. His eyes kind of blanked out, and then he vomited. Without missing a beat, I looked at him and said, “I have a new baby at home—I get vomited on all the time. It’s all good. I can clean this up in no time.” He looked startled, then let out a small laugh, and quietly turned around and went back to his dad’s car. They drove away.

The next day, he made it through the front door and collapsed onto the couch in my room, where he had a full-blown panic attack that lasted about twenty minutes. He shook, he struggled to breathe, but he stayed. The following day, the panic attack was a little shorter—fifteen minutes. He was still overwhelmed, but something inside him was shifting. He was beginning to feel the edge of safety.

After about a month, Jerry could sit in my room from 8:00 to 8:45 and just chat. We talked about life, video games, food—whatever came up. I’d tell him funny stories about working with his dad years ago, and he’d laugh and relax just a little more each day. It was in those small, ordinary conversations that the healing happened. He started to associate the school with comfort, not fear.

One morning, I mentioned that I thought his sense of humour would fit in really well with a couple of other students at the school. I asked if he’d be okay if I invited them to pop in around 8:45, just for a few minutes. He paused, thought about it, and then gave a small nod. It was the first step toward reconnecting him socially—not just to the space, but to a community.

Before those students joined us, Jerry and I practiced. We rehearsed a few simple prompts and responses—basic questions like “What games do you play?” or “What’s your favourite snack?” We kept it light and low-pressure. We did this for about two weeks, building his confidence step by step. And if I ever saw his body language shift—his shoulders tense, his breathing change—I’d simply thank the other students for coming by and ask them to check in later. No big scene. No pressure. Just a quiet exit and a signal to Jerry that he was still in control.

The first meeting with the other kids wasn’t very smooth—but Jerry did it. And I told him, “You did it.” I reminded him that he could let me know when he felt comfortable to try again, and I would follow his lead.

Another month went by, and one morning Jerry quietly asked if those students could come back again. I smiled and said, “Sure. I’ll check what they’re up to.”

From that point on, the other kids made a habit of saying “Hi” to Jerry as they passed by when he was leaving at 8:45. He didn’t say much in return at first, but he noticed. And most importantly—he felt noticed. He was beginning to feel seen again, beginning to feel like he belonged in society. That recognition, even in the smallest of gestures, helped stitch together something that anxiety had torn apart.

Over time, Jerry and the other two kids built a strong relationship rooted in humour, shared projects, and mutual respect. They worked together on school assignments, laughed through awkward moments, and eventually formed a small but powerful circle of friends. For Jerry, that circle was everything—it meant belonging, safety, and the simple joy of being part of something.

After watching Jerry work through his anxiety for nearly two years, by the middle of grade 11 I asked him one morning, “What’s your dream job?” He didn’t hesitate—he said he wanted to be a cake decorator in a bakery. I smiled and told him, “You know, I used to work at a grocery store and I know lots of managers. I could probably help you get a job if you wanted.” I saw the anxiety spark in his eyes, that familiar tension returning. So I softened it and said, “Why don’t we just make a resume and a cover letter together? No pressure—just practice.” He agreed. And that was enough.

After we completed the resume and cover letter, I would review it with him every morning to see if he wanted to add anything else. I kept reminding him, “This looks great. You’ve done a fantastic job.” Then one morning, I casually asked, “Do you want me to drop it off at Thrifty’s?” He hesitated. I could see the uncertainty creeping in. So I didn’t push—I just asked again the next day. And the next. Every morning for about three weeks, I’d bring it up gently. Finally, one morning, he said quietly, “Yeah… could you please drop it off for me?”

That “yes” meant more than any job—it meant courage, trust, and forward momentum.

After he said yes, he came into my room at 8:00 and we hung out for about 15 minutes like usual. Then I smiled and said, “Ohhh… you have an interview today at Thrifty’s—get ready, and I’ll drive you.” His face went pale. He immediately vomited and had a full panic attack on the spot. I quickly reassured him, “I’m just kidding—we don’t have an interview. But get ready, because it will happen.” He looked at me, wiped his face, and said, “That wasn’t funny.” I nodded and said, “I know, you’re right. But seriously—get ready. Your dream job is coming soon.”

Every few days after that, I’d drop the line casually: “You ready? The interview is today—I’ll give you a ride.” Without fail, the anxiety hit. Some mornings, he’d just get to my car and vomit. Other days, we’d drive a block or two before he’d ask me to pull over—he’d get out and vomit again. We did this anxiety-vomit dance for almost six months. It was hard to watch, but I could literally see him fight his fear, move past the anxiety wall of darkness, and consistently work toward getting into Thrifty’s for the interview. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t perfect—but it was brave. Every single time.

And then, something started to shift.

As Jerry got physically closer to Thrifty’s—whether it was driving a few more blocks or simply lingering a little longer in the parking lot—his imagination began to take over. He started dreaming out loud. He talked about what it would be like to have a job, to decorate cakes, to walk in with his head up and put on a name tag like everyone else. The fear was still there—but now, hope had a seat beside it.

He was getting closer every time to entering those doors of employment—and doing something he loved.

The day he finally walked through the doors at Thrifty’s for his interview, we both teared up. It wasn’t just about a job—it was about the journey. Over the course of three years, Jerry had gone from not being able to walk through the front doors of his school to entering a busy supermarket, shaking hands with a manager, and attending a job interview. And he got the job. Jerry became a Cake Decorator.

To this day—fifteen years later—I still pop into Thrifty’s once in a while to say hi. And every time I see him behind the bakery counter, doing what he loves, I remember how far he came. Inch by inch. Step by step. Vomit, laughter, panic, and persistence. All of it.

We built a relationship—one grounded in trust, patience, and consistency. It began with early morning hangouts in my quiet room, then short visits into the hallway, and eventually, full days at school. Progress didn’t come in leaps—it came in inches. And that was okay. Because for students like Jerry, those inches are mountains.

Jerry taught me more about anxiety than any textbook or training ever could. He reminded me to slow down, to listen, and to recognize that what might seem like a small step to us can be a massive victory for someone else.

At Elevate Community Connections, I carry that lesson with me every day. Anxiety doesn’t have to be a wall. With the right supports, trust, and time, it can become a doorway.