The fluorescent lights in my office bathroom buzzed like angry wasps. My hands, pressed flat against the cold tile wall, were the only things keeping me upright. In fifteen minutes, I would need to lead a workshop on clinical anxiety techniques—the cruel irony wasn't lost on me.
It was 2019, and at 40, I was supposed to have this figured out. I'd spent years teaching others how to manage their panic, becoming the expert I wished I'd had. Yet here I was, having what felt like a heart attack.
"You're not dying," I whispered to my reflection. Not the gentle self-care affirmations you see on Instagram. Not the clinical grounding techniques I teach in my newsletter. This was rawer, more desperate: "Listen to me. We've done this before. We've survived this before. I need you to trust me right now."
That moment marked a turning point in how I think about anxiety. Not because it was my worst panic attack—those peaked in my early thirties—but because it forced me to finally confront an uncomfortable truth: the polished coping strategies I taught others weren't what saved me in my darkest moments.
For twenty years, I've kept these private words hidden. They're not the techniques I teach in my practice or write about in my newsletters. They saved my life, but I've never shared them—until now.