“Better than a thousand useless words is one useful word that brings peace to a person.” ~ Buddha, Dhammapada
Did he just cut the side of my head open? Am I bleeding everywhere? Is there blood on my face and on the floor?
It was in the middle of my usual fortnightly haircut when my mind suddenly started spinning.
I felt a slight sting on the side of my head and my anxiety took over, my vivid imagination turning to the worst case scenario.
Moments before, my barber and I were laughing at Disneyland. Seconds later I was convinced he had accidentally cut my head open and everyone in the store watched in silence as I bled out.
One of his fellow barbers brought me some trail mix and water, but inside I felt trapped in a relentless loop, cycling between anxiety and fear, unable to break free.
The voices fell silent. The shearers sounded like they were miles away. I felt like my mind was no longer in my body. I was hovering somewhere above it, watching them explode and explode at the same time.
“Call 911!” I shouted. Even though I was in my early thirties and perfectly healthy, I was convinced I was going to have a heart attack. All rational thought disappeared as the physical symptoms took over. My chest tightened, my vision blurred, and I was sure it was over.
“Am I going to die?” ran through my mind as I regretted never writing a will.
I jumped out of the barber chair and lay on the floor, bracing myself for the heart attack I was sure of. Thinking I was going to need CPR, I somehow still managed to get my wallet, find my insurance card, and throw it on the floor when I was inevitably rushed to the hospital.
It’s been nearly a decade since she was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. Since then, I’ve been working hard to manage my mental health through therapy, medication, and self-care, but panic attacks you in a very sneaky way.
My last panic attack was months before and I convinced myself I was clean. Obviously I wasn’t.
“What do I look like? I only have half my hair done?” were the first questions in my mouth as I lay sprawled on the cold cement floor, covered in hair and shame as fire truck sirens blared closer.
My barber crouched down next to me. He remained calm. She gently told me to breathe and reminded me that I was probably having a panic attack.
As I slowly began to calm down, my perception shifted from floating above me to landing back in my body. My chest still hurt, but I could feel my hands again.
When the paramedics arrived, a wave of confusion washed over me. It started to sink in that no, I wasn’t having a heart attack. No, I’m not dead. No, I wasn’t in hell. I just had a panic attack.
The only thing that died that day was my pride as half a dozen firefighters surrounded me in the tiny barber shop as I lay on the floor drenched in sweat.
They checked my pulse and blood pressure. Both were raised.
Then came the real kicker: “Are there any pre-existing conditions?”
I explained that I live with anxiety and panic attacks. One of the firefighters let out an audible sigh as several turned back toward the truck. It’s broken.
Despite being a mental health advocate, I felt ridiculously small, like a child who cried wolf, except the wolf was invisible to everyone but me. It was a raw shame that I hadn’t expected and wasn’t quite sure how to handle. It was as if all of my annual advocacy had suddenly gone out the transparent glass window of the barbershop, seeing their impatience.
It wasn’t just disappointment in their sighs. The dismissal of what I was actually experiencing stung deeper than any physical symptoms.
The only firefighter left inquired about my current medications and sighed louder with each prescription as if my terror was a personal inconvenience to him. He felt that he was irritated by my very existence out of genuine fear for my life.
After ruling out a heart attack, the remaining firefighters helped me back into the chair and left.
As I sat down half-shaven, I couldn’t stop thinking how common this experience was. More than one in five American adults lives with a mental illness According to the National Association on Mental Illness in any given year. Millions of us carry something invisible with us. Yet here I was, overwhelmed with shame over something I had no control over.
Then my barber did the most ordinary and extraordinary thing.
“Are you alright bro?” he asked. Then he picked up the clippers and casually continued to cut my hair as if nothing had happened, continuing our conversation about Disneyland as if I had not just moments before had a near-death experience on the floor next to him.
He didn’t feel sorry for me. He didn’t judge me. He made nothing of it. He was just calm and his calmness told me that it was still just me.
That was all.
Here’s what I learned after living with panic attacks for years. You can’t reason your way out of one, and no one can get out of one.
When this happens, the part of my brain that knows I’m safe goes silent. Logic won’t cut it, and facts won’t help either.
When someone says “you’re fine” it often makes things worse. It feels like one more person doesn’t get it.
What really helps is presence—a calm voice or a calm body next to mine.
My hairdresser was not trained to do this. He just stayed calm when I couldn’t. It pulled me back into the room when nothing else could.
I have my own devices, which I use regularly. One is the five-four-three-two-one foundational exercise, where I name five things I see, four things I touch, three I hear, two things I smell, and one thing I taste. The process brings you back to the present.
I also use a small handheld device called TheraTapper. It sends a gentle pulse to both hands, back and forth, and helps settle my nervous system during the race.
These tools work, but here’s the honest part: I can’t always reach them at the worst moments.
Apartment in a barbershop, convinced I’m going to die, my thinking mind offline. This is exactly when another person’s peace of mind is most important. The tools are mine to practice in silence, but the persistence often has to come from someone else.
I am sharing this because panic attacks are often invisible until suddenly they are not. Trembling, crying, and lying on the ground may seem dramatic, but most of the suffering happens where no one sees it.
And when you’re in sight, the reaction of those around you can make all the difference, whether it’s a sigh, a shrug, or a simple “are you okay?”
I won’t forget the fireman’s sigh, but I think about my barber much more often.
It reminded me that I’m not crazy, I’m not broken, and I’m not alone without saying those words. Sometimes the most healing thing isn’t advice or reassurance. Someone will stay calm by your side until you find your way back.
About Kyle Elliott
Dr. Kyle Elliott (he/she/it) career and leadership coach for technology leaders. As someone with a unique mental health condition, she is proud to use her voice and platform to help others share their stories, get help, and recover. Download your free self-care guide discover more than 30 quick, practical strategies to reduce stress, improve your mental health, and reclaim time and energy.
