Kholeh Sithole
12 August 2025
Imagine being trapped in a tiny, invisible cage—your limbs feel heavy and useless, your thoughts race uncontrollably, and your heart pounds so loudly it drowns out everything else. Your breath comes in short gasps, swallowing feels impossible, and the world around you tilts and blurs. Up and down lose meaning, and dizziness overwhelms you. This is an anxiety attack, a sudden and suffocating wave of panic with no clear escape.
For many, such a feeling might seem linked to a traumatic event, but for me, it can be triggered by the most ordinary moments. Take the carwash, for example. A place meant to be quick and routine. One afternoon, seeing just two cars ahead sent my mind spiralling. “This will take forever,” I thought. “I’m trapped. I can’t just abandon the car.” The minutes stretched painfully, my breath quickened, and my chest tightened. I was paralysed in my seat, struggling to catch my breath. What should have been a simple chore became an ordeal where panic ruled.
Or the time I was in a crowded shop. The noise, the closeness, the endless faces—all of it pressed in on me. My mind screamed to escape, but my body froze. My hands trembled, sweat prickled my skin, and the urge to flee was overwhelming. Yet I stayed, battling the rising tide of fear, trying to ground myself with small breaths.
I was officially diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at 28, but anxiety had been shadowing me long before that. After learning that my biological father had died of cancer years earlier, an intense fear of death consumed me. Every morning, waking up felt like stepping into a storm of dread—fear that I or someone I loved would soon be gone. The simplest tasks felt insurmountable.
Since childhood, I’d exhibited signs—strict routines I couldn’t break, compulsive habits like rubbing my knuckles or pulling at my skin. I thought this was just “me,” normal in my world. In primary school, fear kept me silent, too scared to ask permission to use the bathroom a second time after lunch. The consequence? I wet myself, with classmates watching in disbelief. Secondary school worsened this isolation. I was awkward, uncomfortable in my skin, and plagued by migraines and stomach aches that often kept me home. I perfected the mask of normalcy so well that even my closest friends had no idea.
Dating was no easier. After a traumatic breakup in my final school year, I feared abandonment constantly. Even the most caring partners couldn’t soothe the storm in my mind. I expected rejection, and often, my anxiety made those fears come true.
Despite graduating from university, marrying, and having children, my anxiety only deepened. Compulsions became more visible, and I relapsed into an eating disorder. Eventually, I hit a breaking point—knees on the floor, tears flowing, surrendering to the exhaustion. I was tired of running from my mind.
Therapy became my turning point. I learned to breathe deeply, inhaling through my nose, holding, then exhaling slowly through my mouth while picturing my favourite place: the beach. When panic struck, I used grounding techniques, naming things around me—“The clouds are white, the chair is soft, I hear a door closing”—to anchor myself in reality and quiet irrational fears.
Exercise and focusing each night on three small good things helped me move from survival mode to living. Panic attacks still come, but they are less frequent and less overwhelming because I now have tools and hope.
If you recognise yourself in this story, know you are not alone. Seeking help is a sign of strength, not weakness. With patience, support, and practice, breaking free from panic is possible.
Anxiety doesn’t have to be a prison. Sometimes, saving yourself starts with a single breath.
