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Filtered by Specialty: Anxiety

Related Trauma & PTSD (251) Depression (228) Stress (197) OCD (63)

MC

Maya Calloway

LCSW Portland, OR Telehealth

Anxiety

Warm, collaborative therapy for adults navigating anxiety, burnout, and the transitions life hands us, we go at your pace.

Accepting $130–$180 /session OHP, Aetna, CareOregon +3 Request Intro

TB

Thomas Bui

MA, LPC associate Portland, OR Telehealth

Anxiety

Practical, skills-based work for anxiety and stress, expect warmth, structure, and zero judgment.

Accepting $160–$200 /session OHP, PacificSource +2 Request Intro

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Therapists accepting new clients Telehealth therapists who take OHP Anxiety therapists in Portland What is OHP?

Found 50 verified providers: matches are highlighted on each card.

Verified providers 50

TA

Tess Arden

PMHNP · Portland, OR · In-person & Telehealth

Depression Sadness OHP · Telehealth

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Filtered by Specialty: Anxiety

MC

Maya Calloway

LCSWPortland, OR· Telehealth

Anxiety

Accepting $130–$180 /session

Request Intro

TB

Thomas Bui

LPC associatePortland, OR· Telehealth

Anxiety

Accepting $160–$200 /session

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Plain English · verified directory

Accepting new clients Telehealth · takes OHP Anxiety in Portland What is OHP?

Found 50 verified providers: matches are highlighted on each card.

Verified providers 50

TA

Tess Arden

PMHNP · Portland, OR

Depression Sadness OHP · Telehealth

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From the community

Latest Articles

Fresh insights from our partners and editorial team — therapy guides, Oregon-specific insurance answers, and clinical thinking.

View all articles

What actually happens in a first appointment with me

People are often braced for a first psychiatric appointment to be a triage exercise: a symptom checklist, fifteen minutes, and a prescription. That is a reasonable thing to expect, because it is what a lot of people…

Maria (Masha) Steiner-Renoir· May 19, 2026

What I Learned from Goodbye

The first time the floor fell out from under me, I was only ten years old. My mother died just six months after being diagnosed with cancer, a timeline so fast it felt less like a passing and more like a theft. By the time I got to college, I had already built a personal relationship with depression.So, when my best friend’s brother was shot and killed, it didn't just sadden me—it leveled me. I was trying to cope with my first internship, to maintain friendships, be 21, and graduate college. That family had become my second family, my safety net. When they broke, I broke. I didn’t just fall into a depression; I dove into it, sinking into my bed with my bottles drowning me. Slowly everything I was working towards slipped away. When you’re in that deep, the world shrinks to the size of a liquor bottle and the four walls of a bedroom you can’t bring yourself to leave. My dad’s neighbor, a therapist herself, eventually threw me a rope. She recommended a friend of hers to work with me.For nearly two years, that woman was my entire world. We met weekly, sometimes twice a week. She was there when the addiction took hold, and she was there when things got even darker—after I was sexually assaulted and the depression curdled into suicidal ideation. I was failing every class, a ghost in my own life, only stumbling to the nearest 7-11 or liquor store to refill my cup.She was the one who finally got me into rehab after two different stints in the psych ward. But addiction isn't a straight line. I left rehab early, promising my father I wouldn’t drink for 6 months so I would be able to learn to drink properly afterwards, and graduate college. Upon returning home, my roommates kicked me out of our house after finding me hidden in my closet; high, but not drunk. I didn’t drink for those 6 months, but I didn’t stay clean. I moved into my own apartment where I could hide how bad things really got. I continued to work with my therapist, showing up to our sessions high and not working towards any of the goals we were setting. Somehow, through a haze of survival instinct I didn't know I still had, I managed to graduate. My 6 months of no drinking had finished and against my therapist's advice, I ran. I fled to Mexico. I spent months there, thinking a change of scenery would fix a broken spirit, but I only spiraled further. By the time I touched back down in Oregon, I was desperate. I knew I was dying. I reached out to the one person who had always held the rope for me, expecting her to pull me up again.She said no.She declined to work with me. At the time, it felt like the ultimate betrayal. I had trusted her with the most jagged pieces of my soul, and in my moment of greatest need, she closed the door. She said she couldn’t help me anymore, even if I got sober as she couldn’t trust me. I ended up back in the psych ward shortly after, vibrating from a week of no sleep and a body fueled by nothing but chemicals and alcohol.But that "no" did something "yes" never could. It forced me to realize that no one person could carry me—I had to learn how to stand on my own shaky legs.I was able to find a new therapist. I moved in with my lifelong best friend. I started attending meetings. I learned to ask for help, and hold myself accountable. There wasn’t a choice anymore.Today, I am nearly two years sober. I’ve held the same job for over a year, and I’m in a beautiful, loving relationship. After nearly a year of working with my new therapist she told me something I never thought I would hear, “Leah, I think our work here is done. It’s time for you to put your skills to work. You may always reach back out to me, but it’s time for you to start living your life.” Each goodbyes has set me free, and for that I am grateful. Goodbye, Leah.

Leah Burke· Mar 30, 2026

Autism Assessment in Eugene: What I Do and Don't Provide

If you came looking for an autism evaluation, I want to answer that in the first sentence rather than the last. I do not provide one. Here is what I can do instead, and where assessment actually comes from.

Heather Swaney, MA, LPC· Aug 27, 2026

OCD and Alcoholism: My Answer to Life's Uncertainties

Many reminisce on simple, carefree childhoods. I never knew such a thing. I have always been burdened with an intense fear of all that is uncertain, and because life is uncertain, I became afraid of life itself. From the age of six onward, my brain was inundated with disturbing images beyond my control. The only way I knew how to cope with these thoughts was by repeating words to myself that counteracted the ugliness of the thoughts in my head. With each hideous, perverse thought, I whispered the word "pony" to myself. Ponies were innocent and sweet. They served as a very brief distraction to this noise. My obsessions have waxed and waned throughout the years, and I have struggled with many different subtypes, ranging from the more taboo types to the more stereotypical ones revolving around cleanliness and order. When I was diagnosed with OCD at age 11, I was perplexed. To me, and to many others still, OCD was not a disorder. OCD was a quirk. It was actually a gift in some ways. OCD meant that you were supernaturally neat and tidy. Even now in an age where mental health has become less stigmatized, OCD is often not taken seriously. People laugh as they say things like, "I am so OCD," perhaps oblivious to the pain that those with OCD suffer through every day. My disorder was a joke. That was the message I got from society. As my pain grew, I began to over-identify with my mental health problems. I went from therapist to therapist where I received diagnosis after diagnosis. It didn't matter what the diagnosis was because the message was the same. You are messed up. You are broken. We must fix you. I didn't understand myself or my personality beyond my pathologies. By the time I entered college, I felt that no one truly knew me unless they knew the laundry list of my diagnoses and every which way they were screwing up my life. I felt like a liability, not a person. I was a ball of shame. Naturally, I turned to substances as I was absolutely through with thinking. I wanted so badly to escape myself. The OCD brain is very accustomed to having the same thoughts loop day in and day out. It is a broken record. I took to substance abuse quickly. When my obsessions began revolving around drugs and alcohol, it felt like a natural continuation of the OCD cycle. I went on like this for years. I was stuck in self-pity. This was my lot in life. My mental health problems were an easy excuse for my substance abuse and my substance abuse was an easy excuse for my bad behavior. It didn't occur to me that I had any power over my life. I didn't think my actions mattered. It took me getting sober to realize what is and what is not in my control. The serenity prayer is my lifeline, and it helps with my OCD as well. I cannot control the thoughts and images that enter into my head, but I get to choose how I react to them, and whether or not I engage in a compulsion. This applies whether my brain convinces me my family is going to die if I don't say ten hail mary's or if it convinces me I need a drink to not go insane. I am still looking for a therapist that truly feels like a good fit. Finding a therapist that is right for me is within my control, and it is empowering to be able to decide who will help me on my journey. For once in my life, I have hope that if I persevere, I will be okay.

Caroline· Mar 23, 2026

ADHD vs Anxiety in Women: How to Tell the Difference (and Why It Matters)

If you’re constantly overwhelmed, overthinking, or struggling to focus, you might wonder: Is this anxiety – or could it be ADHD? For many women, the answer is surprising. ADHD in women is frequently misdiagnosed as anxiety, leading to years of frustration and treatment that only partially helps. Understanding the difference is one of the most important steps toward getting the

Well Coast Medical Corporation· Aug 11, 2026

Article

How to tell your therapist about a psychedelic experience

People ask me this more than almost anything else, and usually in a lowered voice: should I tell my therapist, and what happens if I do. It is a fair question. The person asking has often spent years building a…

Maria (Masha) Steiner-Renoir· Jun 23, 2026

Article

When should I talk to a therapist about gender identity?

Have you ever wondered if the discontentment or discomfort about your body or perceived identity could be gender dysphoria? For most of us, we are not offered that kind of language or conceptualization to name it for what it is. Before we get into it, let’s differentiate between dysphoria and dysmorphia, two terms I often hear used interchangeably. Dysphoria, typically referring to gender dy

Jaxon Shaffer· Jul 7, 2026

The Library

Read all articles

Therapy guides, insurance breakdowns, and clinical thinking from Oregon providers.

View all

What actually happens in a first appointment with me

People are often braced for a first psychiatric appointment to be a triage exercise: a symptom checklist, fifteen minutes, and a prescription. That is a reasonable thing to expect, because it is what a lot of people…

Maria (Masha) Steiner-Renoir· May 19, 2026

What I Learned from Goodbye

The first time the floor fell out from under me, I was only ten years old. My mother died just six months after being diagnosed with cancer, a timeline so fast it felt less like a passing and more like a theft. By the time I got to college, I had already built a personal relationship with depression.So, when my best friend’s brother was shot and killed, it didn't just sadden me—it leveled me. I was trying to cope with my first internship, to maintain friendships, be 21, and graduate college. That family had become my second family, my safety net. When they broke, I broke. I didn’t just fall into a depression; I dove into it, sinking into my bed with my bottles drowning me. Slowly everything I was working towards slipped away. When you’re in that deep, the world shrinks to the size of a liquor bottle and the four walls of a bedroom you can’t bring yourself to leave. My dad’s neighbor, a therapist herself, eventually threw me a rope. She recommended a friend of hers to work with me.For nearly two years, that woman was my entire world. We met weekly, sometimes twice a week. She was there when the addiction took hold, and she was there when things got even darker—after I was sexually assaulted and the depression curdled into suicidal ideation. I was failing every class, a ghost in my own life, only stumbling to the nearest 7-11 or liquor store to refill my cup.She was the one who finally got me into rehab after two different stints in the psych ward. But addiction isn't a straight line. I left rehab early, promising my father I wouldn’t drink for 6 months so I would be able to learn to drink properly afterwards, and graduate college. Upon returning home, my roommates kicked me out of our house after finding me hidden in my closet; high, but not drunk. I didn’t drink for those 6 months, but I didn’t stay clean. I moved into my own apartment where I could hide how bad things really got. I continued to work with my therapist, showing up to our sessions high and not working towards any of the goals we were setting. Somehow, through a haze of survival instinct I didn't know I still had, I managed to graduate. My 6 months of no drinking had finished and against my therapist's advice, I ran. I fled to Mexico. I spent months there, thinking a change of scenery would fix a broken spirit, but I only spiraled further. By the time I touched back down in Oregon, I was desperate. I knew I was dying. I reached out to the one person who had always held the rope for me, expecting her to pull me up again.She said no.She declined to work with me. At the time, it felt like the ultimate betrayal. I had trusted her with the most jagged pieces of my soul, and in my moment of greatest need, she closed the door. She said she couldn’t help me anymore, even if I got sober as she couldn’t trust me. I ended up back in the psych ward shortly after, vibrating from a week of no sleep and a body fueled by nothing but chemicals and alcohol.But that "no" did something "yes" never could. It forced me to realize that no one person could carry me—I had to learn how to stand on my own shaky legs.I was able to find a new therapist. I moved in with my lifelong best friend. I started attending meetings. I learned to ask for help, and hold myself accountable. There wasn’t a choice anymore.Today, I am nearly two years sober. I’ve held the same job for over a year, and I’m in a beautiful, loving relationship. After nearly a year of working with my new therapist she told me something I never thought I would hear, “Leah, I think our work here is done. It’s time for you to put your skills to work. You may always reach back out to me, but it’s time for you to start living your life.” Each goodbyes has set me free, and for that I am grateful. Goodbye, Leah.

Leah Burke· Mar 30, 2026

Autism Assessment in Eugene: What I Do and Don't Provide

If you came looking for an autism evaluation, I want to answer that in the first sentence rather than the last. I do not provide one. Here is what I can do instead, and where assessment actually comes from.

Heather Swaney, MA, LPC· Aug 27, 2026

OCD and Alcoholism: My Answer to Life's Uncertainties

Many reminisce on simple, carefree childhoods. I never knew such a thing. I have always been burdened with an intense fear of all that is uncertain, and because life is uncertain, I became afraid of life itself. From the age of six onward, my brain was inundated with disturbing images beyond my control. The only way I knew how to cope with these thoughts was by repeating words to myself that counteracted the ugliness of the thoughts in my head. With each hideous, perverse thought, I whispered the word "pony" to myself. Ponies were innocent and sweet. They served as a very brief distraction to this noise. My obsessions have waxed and waned throughout the years, and I have struggled with many different subtypes, ranging from the more taboo types to the more stereotypical ones revolving around cleanliness and order. When I was diagnosed with OCD at age 11, I was perplexed. To me, and to many others still, OCD was not a disorder. OCD was a quirk. It was actually a gift in some ways. OCD meant that you were supernaturally neat and tidy. Even now in an age where mental health has become less stigmatized, OCD is often not taken seriously. People laugh as they say things like, "I am so OCD," perhaps oblivious to the pain that those with OCD suffer through every day. My disorder was a joke. That was the message I got from society. As my pain grew, I began to over-identify with my mental health problems. I went from therapist to therapist where I received diagnosis after diagnosis. It didn't matter what the diagnosis was because the message was the same. You are messed up. You are broken. We must fix you. I didn't understand myself or my personality beyond my pathologies. By the time I entered college, I felt that no one truly knew me unless they knew the laundry list of my diagnoses and every which way they were screwing up my life. I felt like a liability, not a person. I was a ball of shame. Naturally, I turned to substances as I was absolutely through with thinking. I wanted so badly to escape myself. The OCD brain is very accustomed to having the same thoughts loop day in and day out. It is a broken record. I took to substance abuse quickly. When my obsessions began revolving around drugs and alcohol, it felt like a natural continuation of the OCD cycle. I went on like this for years. I was stuck in self-pity. This was my lot in life. My mental health problems were an easy excuse for my substance abuse and my substance abuse was an easy excuse for my bad behavior. It didn't occur to me that I had any power over my life. I didn't think my actions mattered. It took me getting sober to realize what is and what is not in my control. The serenity prayer is my lifeline, and it helps with my OCD as well. I cannot control the thoughts and images that enter into my head, but I get to choose how I react to them, and whether or not I engage in a compulsion. This applies whether my brain convinces me my family is going to die if I don't say ten hail mary's or if it convinces me I need a drink to not go insane. I am still looking for a therapist that truly feels like a good fit. Finding a therapist that is right for me is within my control, and it is empowering to be able to decide who will help me on my journey. For once in my life, I have hope that if I persevere, I will be okay.

Caroline· Mar 23, 2026

ADHD vs Anxiety in Women: How to Tell the Difference (and Why It Matters)

If you’re constantly overwhelmed, overthinking, or struggling to focus, you might wonder: Is this anxiety – or could it be ADHD? For many women, the answer is surprising. ADHD in women is frequently misdiagnosed as anxiety, leading to years of frustration and treatment that only partially helps. Understanding the difference is one of the most important steps toward getting the

Well Coast Medical Corporation· Aug 11, 2026

How to tell your therapist about a psychedelic experience

People ask me this more than almost anything else, and usually in a lowered voice: should I tell my therapist, and what happens if I do. It is a fair question. The person asking has often spent years building a…