“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” It was about the tenth time in three months I’d sent some version of that text to my boyfriend. The time prior to this, it was 8:00 P.M. on a Saturday. I’d just binged a whole season of Criminal Minds and placed my third order on Seamless that day. I knew I should cook, but even making SpaghettiOs (my go-to depressed “meal”) was impossible. This time, an uneventful Monday morning, I was getting ready for work, and just putting on pants felt like too much. I was sitting there, sobbing, jeans pulled halfway up my thighs, and out of options. I knew I needed to go back on my meds, but I so desperately didn’t want to.

It’s an on-and-off battle I’ve fought for nearly two decades, and one I’m certainly not alone in: one in three women shows signs of an anxiety disorder sometime in her life. My anxiety (and depression) started in middle school, as did my aversion for medication. One made me so foggy I slept through my alarm nearly every day for a month. Another made me so ill I puked into the sleeves of my hoodie on the bus. (You can imagine how well that went over around a bunch a 14-year-olds.) I cycled through different therapists and psychiatrists for years—all of whom would try a different method or medication when the last didn’t seem to work. Finally at 22, riding on the high of moving to New York and landing my first real-world job, I made the choice to try and go it on my own.

I was fine for a few years, but as I climbed the ladder at work, my anxiety started catching up to me. I’d do well for a couple of months, then a deadline or an off-handed comment from my boss would send me into a heart-pounding, mind-racing tailspin. My chest would tighten as I’d replay conversations over and over again in my head, fixating on how I should have responded. I’d wake up at 6:00 A.M. to start working and leave at 9:00 P.M. to go home and work some more. I’d be so exhausted by the workweek that I wouldn’t want to move from the couch on the weekend.

How could I have everything I ever wanted—at least on the outside—and still feel so empty?

The pressure, almost all self-imposed, to be successful was crippling. Even though I was by all means doing great work, I still felt like I wasn’t good enough.

For the longest time I thought maybe it was just the roles I was in. Everything else in my life was “perfect.” I had a supportive partner, a tight-knit group of friends, and—after years of living in dingy crawlspaces—an apartment with a dishwasher. But even after landing my dream job, I was still miserable. How could I have everything I ever wanted—at least on the outside—and still feel so empty?

Thankfully, we can be more open about mental health issues than a generation ago. Spurred along in part by the body positivity movement, talking honestly about anxiety and depression is no longer the taboo it once was. Real women and celebrities alike are now sharing intimate, personal details about their mental health struggles online. Ariana Grande has preached about the “life-saving” benefits of therapy to her 60 million followers. Emma Stone has discussed the “terrifying and overwhelming” feeling of her panic attacks. Selena Gomez, Lady Gaga, Kristen Bell, Chrissy Teigen, Demi Lovato—the list of powerful women who have de-stigmatized talking about mental health goes on and on.

But for all the positives that have come with this openness, it’s also paved the way for a disturbing trend that’s been popping up all over social media in the past few months: the idea that you can somehow “fix” these issues with self-care. “This Necklace Will Stop Your Anxiety,” blared a subject line that recently popped up in my inbox. (The sender claimed a charm helps steady your breathing. Sure.) My Instagram has been taken over by influencers swearing by the calming magic of essential oils and CBD gummies.

I’ve always held a healthy amount of skepticism for this kind of wellness snake oil, which is essentially the mental health version of fad diets. But I found myself thinking maybe downloading a breathing app and becoming a bath person would take some of my edge off. What was the worst that could happen? I’d still be eating canned pasta?

I have to remind myself that, as with any other physical illness, there’s no shame in taking medication for depression and anxiety.

For three months I fought hard to buy into the idea that I could somehow will away mental illness. If I could just try a little harder, I could cure my anxiety with a healthy dose of self-care. I tried slowing down with a mindful seven-step skin care routine instead of just slapping on moisturizer. I splurged on a deluxe spa pedicure and chair massage at the nail salon. I tried CBD everything: oils, seltzer, and yes, even the gummies. (If sleepy is the same thing as zen, then I guess they worked?) Yet the nagging voice in my head constantly telling me I’m not good enough refused to shut up. I was still having meltdowns in the shower over how I should have answered an email three weeks ago.

That’s when I called B.S. on our current self-care obsession. It’s one thing to say a skin care ritual is calming. It’s another to say it’s a cure for depression. Needing medication to manage my mental illness does not mean I failed at self-care.

To be clear here, I’m not saying homeopathic remedies are necessarily a bad thing. As Dr. Indra Cidambi, a psychiatrist who specializes in mental health and addiction issues, notes, mental health issues come in different forms. “The utilization of breathing techniques or beads is generally more effective for some milder forms of anxiety,” she says. “However, treatment—as in therapy coupled with medication—is needed for a full-blown diagnosis of anxiety.”

After the pants-crying incident, I made the decision to go back to my doctor and start therapy. And to get back on antidepressants. Meds aren’t a quick-fix solution either; rather they’re part of a program that lets me get out of bed with the same energy anyone else would each morning. With the help of therapy, I’m trying to work through my issues of crippling self-doubt.

I have to remind myself that, as with any other physical illness, there’s no shame in taking medication for depression and anxiety. Would I try fixing an asthma attack with an Epsom salt bath and a jade roller? Hell no, my airway would collapse.

I still don’t love being on medication. I won’t lie: Side effects like weight gain and a lower libido suck. But I’m in a better place than I was six months ago. I’m actively taking steps to take back control of my life. And I’m not breaking down into tears because it’s Monday.

Lindsay Schallon is Glamour’s senior beauty editor.

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