“Better than a thousand useless words is one useful word, upon hearing which one attains peace.” ~Buddha, Dhammapada
Did he just cut the side of my head open? Am I bleeding out everywhere? Is there blood rushing down my face and onto the floor?
It was the middle of my standard biweekly haircut when my mind suddenly began to spiral.
I felt a slight sting on the side of my head, and my anxiety took over, using its vivid imagination to pivot to the worst-case scenario.
Moments before, my barber and I were laughing about Disneyland. Seconds later, I was convinced he’d accidentally sliced my head open, and everyone in the shop was quietly watching me bleed out.
One of his fellow barbers brought me some trail mix and water, but inside, I felt trapped in a merciless loop, cycling between anxiety and fear, unable to break free.
Voices became muffled. The clippers sounded like they were miles away. My mind felt like it was no longer in my body. I was floating somewhere above it, watching myself simultaneously implode and explode.
“Call 911!” I shouted. Despite being in my early thirties and completely healthy, I was convinced I was having a heart attack. All rational thought disappeared as the physical symptoms overwhelmed me. My chest tightened, my vision blurred, and I was sure this was the end.
“Am I dying?” looped through my mind as I regretted never having written a will.
I leapt from the barber chair and lay on the floor, bracing for the heart attack I was certain was coming. Thinking I’d need CPR, I somehow still had the wherewithal to pull out my wallet, find my insurance card, and toss it onto the ground for when they inevitably rushed me to the hospital.
It had been nearly a decade since I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. Since then, I’ve worked hard to manage my mental health through therapy, medication, and self-care, but panic has a very sneaky way of catching you off guard.
My last panic attack had been months earlier, and I’d convinced myself I was in the clear. Obviously, I wasn’t.
“How do I look? Do I only have half a haircut?” were the first questions out of my mouth as I lay sprawled out on the cold cement floor, covered in both hair and shame, as fire engine sirens wailed closer.
My barber crouched down next to me. He stayed calm. He gently told me to breathe and reminded me I was probably having a panic attack.
As I slowly started to settle, my perception shifted from floating above myself to landing somewhat back in my body. My chest still ached, but I started to feel my hands again.
When the paramedics arrived, a wave of embarrassment swept over me. It started to sink in that no, I wasn’t having a heart attack. No, I wasn’t dying. No, I wasn’t in hell. I had just had a panic attack.
The only thing that died that day was a bit of my pride, as a half-dozen firefighters surrounded me in the tiny barbershop while I lay on the ground, drenched in sweat.
They checked my heart rate and blood pressure. Both were elevated.
Then came the real kicker: “Any pre-existing conditions?”
I explained that I live with anxiety and panic attacks. One firefighter sighed audibly as several others turned back toward the truck. That crushed me.
Despite being a vocal advocate for mental health, I felt ridiculously small, like a child who had cried wolf, except the wolf was invisible to everyone but me. It was a raw shame I didn’t expect and wasn’t quite sure how to handle. It was like all my years of advocacy suddenly went out the barbershop’s clear-as-glass window in the face of their impatience.
It wasn’t just the frustration in their sighs, either. It was the dismissal of what I was actually experiencing that stung deeper than any physical symptom.
The one firefighter who stayed asked about my current medications, sighing louder with each prescription I listed, as if my terror were a personal inconvenience to him. It felt like genuinely fearing for my life made him irritated by my very existence.
Once they ruled out a heart attack, the remaining firefighters helped me back into the chair and left.
As I sat down with half a haircut, I couldn’t stop thinking about how common this experience was. More than one in five U.S. adults live with a mental health condition in any given year, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness. Millions of us carry something invisible. Yet here I was, flooded with shame for something I couldn’t control.
Then my barber did the most ordinary, and extraordinary, thing.
“You good, bro?” he asked. Then he picked up the clippers and casually kept cutting my hair, as if nothing had happened, resuming our conversation about Disneyland like I hadn’t just had what felt like a near-death experience on the floor next to him moments earlier.
He didn’t pity me. He didn’t judge me. He didn’t make it a thing. He was simply calm, and his calm told me I was still just me.
That was everything.
Here is what I’ve learned, having lived with panic attacks for years. You cannot reason your way out of one, and no one can reason you out of one either.
When it’s happening, the part of my brain that knows I’m safe goes quiet. Logic doesn’t land, and facts don’t help.
Someone insisting “you’re fine” often makes it worse. It just feels like one more person who doesn’t get it.
What actually helps is presence—a steady voice or a calm body next to mine.
My barber had no training in any of this. He simply stayed calm when I couldn’t. That pulled me back into the room when nothing else could.
I do have my own tools, and I use them regularly. One is the five-four-three-two-one grounding exercise, where I name five things I can see, four I can touch, three I can hear, two I can smell, and one I can taste. The process brings me back to the present.
I also use a small handheld device called a TheraTapper. It sends a gentle pulse to each hand, back and forth, and helps settle my nervous system when it’s racing.
These tools work, but here’s the honest part: in the worst moments, I can’t always reach them.
Flat on a barbershop floor, convinced I’m dying, my thinking mind is offline. That’s exactly when another person’s calm matters most. The tools are mine to practice in the quiet, but the steadiness often has to come from someone else.
I’m sharing this because panic attacks are so often invisible until suddenly they’re not. The shaking, the crying, and the lying on the floor can look dramatic, but most of the suffering is happening somewhere no one can see.
And when it does spill into view, the response of the people nearby can change everything, whether it’s a sigh, a shrug, or a simple “you good?”
I won’t forget the firefighter’s sigh, but I think about my barber far more often.
He reminded me that I’m not crazy, I’m not broken, and I’m not alone, without ever saying those words. Sometimes the most healing thing isn’t advice or reassurance. It’s someone staying calm beside you until you find your way back.
About Kyle Elliott
Dr. Kyle Elliott (he/him/his) is a career and executive coach for tech leaders. As a queer person living with mental health conditions, he is proud to use his voice and platform to help others share their stories, get help, and achieve recovery. Download his free self-care guide to discover 30+ quick, practical strategies to reduce your stress, enhance your mental health, and reclaim your time and energy.
