As I slid down the snow-covered slope, my backpack strap tightened around my neck, and I felt the familiar catch of panic in my throat. I came to a stop and tried desperately to pull off my gloves, unstrap my backpack, and get more air into my tightening windpipe. My chest hurt. My breathing was erratic. My vision was starting to blur. I’d felt it coming; now it was too late.
I’ve had panic attacks for a decade now, mainly triggered by noisy places and crowds. Before this moment, though, I’d only ever had one in the outdoors, when I took part in a far-too-busy-for-me adventure race. The outdoors had historically been my safe place, yet here I was on my first-ever backcountry ski trip, a crumpled mess.
As my friend Ed looked desperately at me, asking how he could help, I felt the weight of irresponsibility on my shoulders.
Unlike the stereotype, my panic attacks have evolved since COVID. In addition to the familiar shortness of breath and racing heart, I now get temporary loss of speech, drooping of the right side of my face, and the inability to use my right arm. Unless you know what’s happening, it looks like a stroke.
Fortunately, Ed knew about my panic and how it manifested, but we hadn’t discussed pre-trip what to do if it hit. And he’d never seen it in person before. That moment was a turning point for me, and I realised that even though the likelihood of something happening on an adventure was slim, I had to start disclosing my condition. It was the only way to keep myself and others safe—and to avoid any unnecessary panic.
But I was terrified.
