20/01/2026
A panic attack is a thief of the present moment. It doesn’t announce its arrival; it simply invades.
It strikes in the mundane, during a conversation, a quiet sip of coffee, or a passing thought, hijacking your physiology like a fire alarm that refuses to be silenced. One moment you are grounded; the next, the world shifts beneath you.
It begins as a subtle pressure in the chest, a flicker that signals your lungs have forgotten their lifelong rhythm. You reach for air, but the breath never quite lands. Your heart accelerates into a frantic rhythm, pounding so violently you’re certain it must be visible to the world. Your ears ring, and your extremities tingle with a numbness that makes your own body feel foreign.
In this state, your brain becomes a frantic investigator, searching for a culprit: Is this a heart attack? Is this the end?
Your body is convinced of an imminent catastrophe that your mind cannot name. We are taught about “fight or flight,” but panic often forces a third option: the freeze. You are locked in place, limbs heavy and voice trapped, a silent witness to your own internal storm. The world takes on a surreal quality, distant, muffled, as if viewed through thick glass.
You try to command your body back to safety, but it is in survival mode. It isn’t listening to logic because it is convinced there is a threat to outrun, even when you are sitting in the safety of your own home.
This is the hidden cruelty of panic: it doesn’t feel like "stress." It feels like the physical process of dying. It is a right-now, irreversible, terrifying failure of the self.
Time loses its shape. Seconds stretch into grueling minutes. But then, as slowly as it arrived, the tide begins to recede. The breath loosens, the heart settles, and the buzzing fades. You are left in the wreckage of the aftermath, exhausted, drained, and often carries a heavy weight of shame or the "fear of the fear."
But here is the truth that changes the narrative:
A panic attack is not a sign that your body is failing. It is a sign that your body is trying to protect you. It is a protective mechanism that has misfired, sounding a deafening alarm for a fire that isn't there.
It is unbearable, but it is temporary.
It is terrifying, but it is not fatal.
It is overwhelming, but you are not broken.
If you are reading this with a racing heart, remember: your nervous system is overwhelmed, not defective. You have navigated this darkness before, and you will find your way back to the light again. You are safe. CHINEL is letting you know today that this shall pass. Your body knows the way back to calm, even if it hasn't found the path just yet.
NOTE:
You are not alone in this battle. You are still here, and that strength is more powerful than any storm. 💛
