What Years of Anxiety Taught Me About Balancing Two Minds

 

Guest post by Dr. Britt Ritchie, DNP, PMHNP-BC 

First, a huge thank-you to Dr. Paul Cook for inviting me to contribute here. Paul was my Division Chair when I worked at the University of Colorado (CU) as an assistant professor. During that time, he saw me at one of my most vulnerable points—grappling with anxiety so intense it almost made me abruptly quit my job. I knew it was social anxiety—the kind of fear marked by an overwhelming sense of being judged, embarrassed, or humiliated in front of others—but knowing the label didn’t make it any easier to manage in the moment.

Because of that shared history, it feels especially fitting to write about my experience lecturing during my time at CU through the lens of Paul’s Two Minds Theory.

I can still picture the lecture hall—the rows of students, the humming projector, the fluorescent lights that were both too hot and too bright. On paper, I was prepared. I had spent hours rehearsing, editing slides, and reviewing notes. I chased perfection, convinced that if I covered every detail, I could protect myself from humiliation—whether that meant misspeaking, being unable to answer a question, or, worst of all, saying something incorrect!

Outwardly, I looked calm (maybe). Inwardly, I was terrified (definitely).

In the weeks leading up to the first day of class, I was unable to sleep. I had intermittent panic attacks and started to question if I could truly do this. I took medication to manage the anxiety of public speaking, but that came with its own problem—dry mouth. Which, of course, gave me another worry: did my lips look odd, could people see how nervous I was, would they notice? I wasn’t sure if the medication was helping or making the situation worse.

I was more than qualified to teach the class, but I never felt certain of myself. So I piled on hours of studying, preparation, and worry—an exhausting attempt to outwork every possible misstep.

Then the moment came. My hands trembled. My face flushed hot. My mouth went drier than dry. Sweat collected under the lights. My chest tightened. My heart pounded. And despite all that preparation, my mind initially went blank.

After the first ten minutes, the pressure usually eased. The students weren’t so intimidating—in fact, they were lovely: always kind, curious, and engaged. But my brain spun its own narrative: “They’re waiting for me to slip. They’ll see I don’t belong here. They’ll laugh about it later.” Completely irrational, I knew—but the story replayed no matter how many lectures I survived.

After class, I sometimes broke down in tears, releasing the stress that had built up all day. And yet, here’s the paradox: I actually liked teaching. I wanted to be good at it. But the anxiety was so intense—the physical and emotional toll so overwhelming—that I couldn’t seem to push past it.

Eventually, I confided in Paul about my experience.

In his steady, supportive way, he encouraged me to reframe my anxiety as excitement. In theory, it made sense—the physiological response is the same. But in reality, my body and mind weren’t buying it. My intuitive mind screamed danger  while my narrative mind tried to reframe it with “You’re just excited!” I’d repeat this like a mantra—but when lecture time returned, so did the intense anxiety.

Reflecting on Paul’s Two Minds Theory, I can see exactly what was happening. My intuitive mind was in overdrive—triggering every alarm bell it had. Sweaty palms, tunnel vision, racing heart. It had already made its judgment: public speaking = threat. My narrative mind tried to smooth things over with a pep talk: “You’ve prepared for this. You’re fine. This is excitement, not fear.” Afterward I’d tell myself, “It went well. You’re good at this. You can do this!” But the reassurance never seemed to last.

My two minds weren’t working together. My intuitive mind drowned me in panic, while my narrative mind wrote a story that couldn’t override it. Instead of calming me, they amplified each other—one sounding the alarm, the other spinning a fearful script. I felt defeated, convinced I might never overcome the anxiety that was holding me back from my goals.

People with social anxiety often hear advice like “just reframe it” or “think positive,” and sometimes that works. But when your intuitive mind has already hijacked the body, it’s too late for the narrative mind to overwrite the signals. You can’t logic your way out of sweaty palms and a racing pulse—not until the body calms enough to listen. That was my experience in those lecture halls. And it’s why reframing, while helpful, wasn’t the full answer for me.

The lecture hall was only one stage where my two minds battled. Looking back, I see the same pattern across my life. In childhood plays, freezing under the lights while my narrative voice whispered, “Everyone is watching you mess this up.” In classrooms, where raising my hand felt like stepping onto a firing line. Even when I knew the answer, my intuitive mind flooded me with panic. If I got it right, it didn’t matter—“everyone knew that one.” But if I got it wrong? The devastation to my ego was so intense that I avoided raising my hand for the rest of the year. In my mind, everyone thought I was incompetent, and clearly, the only solution was to transfer schools.

In job interviews, I rehearsed endlessly, sweated through every question, and then cried afterward, convinced I had blown it—regardless of the outcome. In my career, perfectionism drove me to over-prepare, over-commit, and over-function just to feel “good enough.”

Everywhere I turned, my intuitive mind and my narrative mind seemed to be at odds—one overreacting, the other overexplaining. My intuitive mind worked like a faulty smoke alarm, blaring at the smallest spark, while my narrative mind vacillated between pep talks and catastrophic stories.

This battle of the minds wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was exhausting. Social anxiety left me dreading basic interactions, replaying conversations on a loop, and avoiding opportunities I secretly wanted. Imposter syndrome convinced me that every achievement was a fluke, that I didn’t truly belong because I had to work so much harder than everyone else. Burnout eventually set in because the hours of worry, over-preparing, and putting everything else in my life on the back burner were not sustainable.

I was getting help—medications, working with a therapist to strengthen my ability to reframe untrue beliefs, and using breathwork and other tools to rebalance my nervous system. I had functional lab testing done and uncovered nutrient deficiencies which, when addressed, decreased my anxiety and helped sharpen my typically jumbled mind. None of it was overnight, but the cumulative effects were slowly paying off. With time, I became able to put myself out there with less fear and more confidence. The narrative mind began to soften, offering encouragement instead of constant criticism.

Because I know these struggles aren’t mine alone, I created my private practice, Mind Alchemy Mental Health, to support other women navigating the same challenges—bringing not only clinical expertise but also empathy and the hard-earned insight of lived experience.

Today, I help ambitious women who are caught in the same tug-of-war. Over the years, I’ve learned that the intuitive mind can’t be silenced by pep talks alone; it needs the body to be soothed through breathwork, nervous system regulation, nutrition, sleep, and sometimes even medication or supplements. At the same time, the narrative mind needs guidance too. Left unchecked, it writes stories of failure, shame, or inadequacy. Through therapy, reframing, and self-compassion, we can teach it to tell more accurate, kinder, and truer stories.

The beauty of Paul’s Two Minds Theory is that it explains why both systems are essential, and why ignoring either one leaves us unbalanced. The intuitive mind keeps us alive, alert, and connected to our environment—but it can also overreact, flooding us with false alarms. The narrative mind gives us meaning, planning, and the ability to reflect—but it can also trap us in distorted stories or endless self-criticism.

Healing doesn’t come from picking one mind over the other. It comes from acknowledging both, respecting both, and learning how to bring them into balance.

I never became the kind of professor who loved lecturing. But I did become someone who understands why standing in front of that room was so hard for me—and how those lessons could fuel a career dedicated to helping others.

So thank you, Paul—for your support back then and today, and for letting me revisit our shared story here. Your Two Minds Theory gave me a framework for understanding what I went through, and it’s one I will carry into my work every day.

That nervous assistant professor in the lecture hall had no idea she’d one day use those shaky-handed experiences to guide other women out of their own two-mind battles. But that’s the unexpected gift of struggle: sometimes what feels like failure at the time becomes the foundation for everything that comes next.

About the Author
Britt Ritchie, DNP, PMHNP-BC, is a doctorate-prepared psychiatric nurse practitioner and the founder of Mind Alchemy Mental Health, a boutique integrative psychiatry practice based in Denver, Colorado.

You can learn more about Britt’s practice at www.mindalchemymentalhealth.com or connect with her on Instagram, LinkedIn, and YouTube.