“One good word is better than a thousand useless words, which bring peace when heard.” ~Buddha, Dhammapada
Did he just take off the side of my head? Am I bleeding everywhere? Is there blood running down my face and onto the floor?
It was in the middle of my standard fortnightly haircut when my mind suddenly began to spiral.
I felt a slight sting in the side of my head, and my anxiety used her vivid imagination to conjure up the worst.
Not long ago, my barber and I were laughing about Disneyland. After a few seconds, I was convinced that he had accidentally cut my head off, and everyone in the store was silently watching me bleed.
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.
The voices were confused. The Clippers looked like they were miles away. My mind felt like it was no longer in my body. I was floating somewhere above it, watching myself explode and explode at the same time.
“Call 911!” I screamed. In my early thirties and despite being perfectly 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 going to die?” My mind went into a loop because I regretted never writing a will.
I jumped out of the barber chair and lay on the floor, bracing for the heart attack I was sure was coming. Thinking I would need CPR, I had the means to pull out my wallet, find my insurance card, and throw it on the ground when they inevitably took me to the hospital.
It’s been almost 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 protecting you.
My last panic attack was a few months ago, and I wanted to make sure I was clear. Obviously, I wasn’t.
“What do I look like? Do I only have half my hair cut?” Was the first question out of my mouth as I lay on the cold cement floor, covered in both hair and shame, as the sirens of fire engines grew closer.
My barber crouched next to me. He remained calm. He gently told me to breathe and reminded me that I was probably having a panic attack.
As I slowly began to settle, my awareness shifted from floating above myself to descend slightly back into my body. My chest still hurt, but I started to feel my arms again.
When the paramedics arrived, embarrassment washed over me. It started to sink in that no, I didn’t have a heart attack. No, I wasn’t dying. No, I wasn’t in hell. I just had a panic attack.
The only thing I was proud of was dying that day, as half a dozen firemen surrounded me in the little barber shop as I lay on the ground drenched in sweat.
They checked my heart rate and blood pressure. Both were promoted.
Then came the real kicker: “Any pre-existing conditions?”
I explained that I live with anxiety and panic attacks. A firefighter sighed audibly as several others turned back to the truck. That crushed me.
Despite being a vocal advocate for mental health, I felt ridiculously small, like a child who cried wolf, invisible to everyone but me. It was a raw shame that I hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure how to handle. It was all my years of advocacy in the face of their impatience that suddenly flew out the glass window of the barber shop.
It wasn’t just frustration in their sighs. It was the dismissal that I was actually feeling that stung deeper than any physical symptom.
A firefighter who asked about my current medications sighed loudly with each prescription I listed, as if my terror was a personal inconvenience to him. It seemed that genuine fear for my life made him resent my existence.
Once they ruled out a heart attack, the remaining firefighters helped me back into the chair and left.
As I sat with half a haircut, I couldn’t help but think how common this experience was. One in five US adults lives with a mental health problem According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness in any given year. Millions of us carry something invisible. Yet here I was, flooded with shame over something I couldn’t control.
Then my barber did the most ordinary, and extraordinary, thing.
“How are you, brother?” he asked. Then he picked up the clippers and casually continued to cut my hair, as if nothing had happened, resuming our conversation about Disneyland as if I hadn’t felt the same near-death experience on the floor next to him moments before.
He didn’t pity me. He didn’t judge me. He didn’t make it a thing. He was just calm, and his calm told me that I was still just.
That was everything.
Here’s what I’ve learned, living with panic attacks for years. You can’t talk your way out of one, and no one can talk you out of one.
When this happens, the part of my brain that knows I’m safe goes quiet. The argument doesn’t hold ground, and the data doesn’t help.
Someone insisting “you’re fine” often makes it worse. It seems like just one more person who doesn’t get it.
What really helps is presence—a steady voice or a calm body next to me.
My barber had no training in this. He was calm when I couldn’t be. That pulled me back into the room when nothing else would.
I 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 the TheraTapper. It sends a gentle pulse to each arm, front and back, and it helps stabilize my nervous system while running.
These tools work, but here’s the honest part: At the worst moments, I can’t always reach them.
Flat on the floor of a barber shop, sure I’m dying, my thoughts offline. That’s when the other person’s calm is most important. The tools to practice quietly are mine, but the stability often has to come from someone else.
I’m sharing this because panic attacks often disappear until they suddenly happen. The shaking, crying and lying on the floor looks dramatic, but most of the suffering is happening somewhere no one can see.
And when it spills into the scene, the reaction of those around can change everything, whether it’s a sigh, a shrug, or a simple “you okay?”
I will never forget the fireman’s sigh, but I think about my barber 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 who stays calm by your side until you find your way back.
about Kyle Elliott
Dr. Kyle Elliott (He/Him/His) is an executive coach for career and technical leaders. As a queer person living with a mental health condition, she is proud to use her voice and platform to help others share their stories, find help and achieve recovery. Download her free self-care guide Discover 30+ quick, practical techniques to reduce your stress, improve your mental health, and reclaim your time and energy.
