I had tried everything—everything that made sense or was within my reach. Diets, exercises, meditations, breathing techniques, ‘lifestyles’—each one a hopeful experiment. But reaching the point where nothing seemed left to try was terrifying. For a while, the promise of ‘the next thing’ had grown dimmer, less convincing. But that night, for the first time, I couldn’t think of a single option. I had zero ideas. And that, on top of the mess I was already drowning in, felt like a whole new problem of its own.

It was winter in Vancouver. The rain and gloomy sky felt like a relentless reminder of my miserable existence. Misery—what was it, exactly? For as long as I could remember, I had struggled with disordered eating and deeply insecure patterns in my relationships. Simply put, I didn’t know how to ‘do’ relationships at all. I was at war with myself—self-destructing through food and exercise—and just as lost in the way I connected with others, sabotaging relationships with anxious or avoidant behaviour. There was nowhere to turn, inside or out. I was my own enemy, everywhere.

But there was one thing I took pride in—self-awareness. At least I knew what was going on. And if I understood the problem, then all that was left was to find and apply the ‘fix,’ correct? That is how things work. I was in control. I could manage my depression and anxiety while searching for the solution—because surely, it was out there. And for a while, that belief sustained me… until it didn’t.

That wintry night, I felt especially low as I called it a night after a rough day. But sleep wouldn’t come. And then, all at once, my mood plummeted—fast and hard. It felt like I was free-falling into a depth I had never known. An all-time low. I wouldn’t realize until much later that I was experiencing my very first panic attack. And it was terrifying. Nothing like what I had read about or heard from others. This… this was a different beast entirely.

I lay in bed, awake, staring numbly into the darkness. Then, without warning, it hit—like the weight of all the pain and sadness in the world had been poured onto me. Whether liquid or heavy air, it didn’t matter—it crashed over me. A rush of pure despair. As it seeped into me, I had no thoughts, no words—only one thing that I knew deeply: nothing would ever be okay.

As “the wave” pressed down on me, heavier and heavier, a dark conviction took shape. I will die alone, young, and sick. No love. No family. Gone and forgotten, as if I was never here. It wasn’t only a fear—it was the truth. I was doomed. The weight of this realization crushed my mind as the wave crushed my body. I could barely breathe.

In the midst of it all, a more tangible terror emerged. The bedroom walls and ceiling seemed to tremble, crumbling around me. I knew I was awake, yet everything around me shook, ready to collapse. My heart pounded violently, as if my body was learning how to die. And I knew that it couldn’t keep beating like that for long.

The immediate fear of a heart attack drowned out everything else. Suddenly, I was fighting for my life. Driven by survival instinct, I forced my body to move. Muscle by muscle, I tore myself from the wave’s grip and dragged myself to the light switch. The waking nightmare ended as the room lit up. I had no idea what had just happened. As daylight arrived, one thing was clear: it was time. I needed help.