On a Friday in 2017, I was sitting at my desk when my heart started thundering out of my chest.
I took a few deep breaths, thinking it would pass, but it didn’t. My heart raced faster, and it became difficult to breathe. I mumbled something to my colleagues, grabbed my bag, and ran out of work.
Eventually, I called an ambulance.
This kicked off a slew of trips to the ER. Each time, I was convinced my lungs were failing. On my last visit, when my blood work came back clear and the nurse told me, “There’s nothing wrong with you,” I broke down in tears.
It seemed unfathomable that such a raw physical response — a panic attack — could be “all in my mind.” Even so, I knew my job was stressful and unfulfilling, and wildly high London rent prices made it feel impossible to move out of my parents’ flat.
Like many do, I daydreamed of escaping to some faraway paradise.
So, when I accepted a job offer in New Zealand in early 2018, complete with a full relocation package, it’s hard to describe how elated I felt.
Moving gave me a fresh start, but leaving London didn’t solve all my problems
At first, I was excited to reap the benefits of my move. After years of living as a city girl in London, I took advantage of New Zealand’s natural landscapes and got into hiking. In 2019, I completed my first multi-day solo trek on the Milford Track, a 33.2-mile hiking trail in Fiordland National Park.
Being responsible for carrying everything I needed and immersing myself in nature for days at a time was immensely healing.
The pace of life felt slower, too, a far cry from the hustle culture I was used to in London.
When my boss asked me, “How are you?” I started talking about my various work tasks and to-do list. He stopped me to say, “I’m not talking about work. How are you?”
How was I? Despite all the beauty and fresh air, my panic attacks hadn’t subsided. When the breathlessness hit, all I could do was hope that it would go away soon, or do breathing exercises that barely felt like they helped.
A year into my move, under the stunning backdrop of the Southern Alps, I wondered why I was still seeing the world in tones of gray, and why I still spent so many nights unable to sleep, gasping for air.
I thought the move was supposed to fix everything.
I realized the work needed to start on the inside, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come
After four years of living in New Zealand, I finally had a breakthrough when I saw a therapist for the first time.
I’d been seeing my panic attacks as some destructive entity I had to fight, so when they told me I didn’t need to do that, I just stared.
Then, it clicked. I learned it’s less stressful to sit with the discomfort and accept that in the moment, it sucks. As if by magic, I felt significantly less anxious and distraught once I stopped fighting my feelings.
I examined the patterns and relationships in my life, too, and started medication. It nudged my brain chemistry just enough to brighten the tones of gray into a world of color and allow me to feel contentment instead of apathy in my day-to-day life.
My therapist left after 18 months of sessions, but I still regularly read the notes I made during that time. My first epiphany of accepting everything that’s happening remains central to how I’ve moved forward, and I’m glad to say I haven’t had another panic attack since (knock on wood).
The truth is, I could move to the most beautiful place in the world, but the issues I ran from wouldn’t just disappear unless I worked on myself.
Now, seven years since I packed my bags, I still remember my therapist’s words after I described the life I created here in New Zealand: “You built that for yourself.”
And I did. I moved to a new country, sought out new experiences, and got the help I needed, and that’s worth a smile.
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