Climbing from the abyss
A path from panic to presence
Absolute darkness envelops me, thick and suffocating, while distant voices cry out in panic, their echoes a warning. A faint light breaks through the void, as if I'm slowly emerging from an endless abyss, drawn toward the sound and light. Suddenly, panic strikes, paralyzing me, as fear clamps down on my chest and steals my breath.
Just moments before, I had been content, surrounded by my family as we watched Hoosiers, a 1986 sports film about a small-town Indiana high school team.
But then, something shifted. A creeping unease settled in my chest, tightening like an invisible hand. My heart raced, and the voices in my mind grew louder, urging me to flee. I asked my mother to take me to the restroom, but she gently hushed me, asking me to wait. Time stretched, my body trembling, my mind spiraling. The fight between the coach and player on screen mirrored the turmoil inside me—angry words, violence, blood spilling.
My mother rushed me out of the theater, but I awoke to harsh lights, lying in a puddle of urine. I had experienced my first seizure—terrifying, disorienting, beyond my control. It was in that moment, as my mind and body regained awareness, that my journey into unconscious living truly began.
In the months that followed, I underwent tests: sleep deprivation EEGs, CAT scans, and MRIs. At seven, I was diagnosed with epilepsy, a neurological disorder that causes recurrent seizures due to abnormal electrical activity in the brain.
At eleven, during a lesson about eating disorders in PE class, I had another seizure. The same unease from the movie theater returned, this time in the gym. I could no longer breathe easily. A buzzing hum filled my ears and spread to my limbs. My vision blurred, and a dark halo swirled at the edges of my sight. It felt like sinking into an endless, cold void, the world slipping away as my body betrayed me.
Between seven and fifteen, I had nearly half a dozen seizures. It became clear that my brain was the source of my epilepsy, but I realized my thoughts played a significant role in this ongoing battle. From my first seizure, my mind became deeply intertwined with the struggles I faced.
By my twenties, the seizures stopped, but the terror remained. Though I no longer needed medication—my brain had outgrown the seizures—my mind had not.
Panic attacks and fainting spells became my body's new response to stress. Each episode was a haunting echo of the fear that had first gripped me in the theater. The deep sense of dread would flood back, even though the seizures had subsided.
The traumatic scenes from Hoosiers and the aftermath cast a long shadow over my life. With each panic attack, I avoided anything that seemed threatening—certain movies, places, topics related to eating disorders, or anything involving blood or trauma. My reality became one of avoidance and rising fear, tiptoeing around potential triggers. The more I tried to avoid them, the stronger the fear grew. I realized my fear wasn’t just tied to the present, but to a past I couldn’t escape. My mind had been shaping my reality based on fear, and at twenty-eight, I decided it was time to confront this false reality and reclaim control.
This realization didn’t come as a dramatic shift but as a quiet, persistent questioning. It led me to yoga. As an athlete, I was physically prepared for the discipline, but I wasn’t ready for the mental and emotional challenges yoga would present.
In The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, Sutra II:8 states,
Aversion is that which follows identification with painful experiences.
My aversion and identification to discomfort, pain, and past trauma had only deepened my suffering. Yoga offered a path to shift my consciousness—to reconnect with my true self and return to the present.
Through yoga, I began to reconnect with my breath. I realized it mirrored my mental state, and that conscious control over it could transform my life. By slowing, deepening, and smoothing my breath, I saw how profoundly it impacted my mind and well-being. Breathwork helped me manage stress and calm my nervous system.
Over time, working with my teacher Mynx, I began to clear the lens through which I viewed the past. I realized it wasn’t just my mind shaping these episodes, but how deeply my nervous system had been impacted.
My nervous system, sensitive and scarred by the trauma of my first seizure, had been trying to protect me from being overwhelmed. Even when it seemed my body betrayed me, it was working in my defense, shutting down during extreme stress or anxiety.
Through breathwork, slowing down, nourishing self-care, and working with my nervous system, I returned to a more easeful state. The practices and healing modalities I embraced helped me build a healthier relationship with my body and mind.
Though my nervous system still reacts to intense shock or fear, I remind myself to breathe deeply in those moments. It’s not easy, and I know it’s a lifelong practice, but I’m committed to it.
What began as a physical practice evolved into a deep passion for yoga’s spiritual, philosophical, and mental aspects. I cultivated ease, compassion, and stillness through breath, mindfulness, and meditation. I uncovered years of buried conditioning, clinging, and suffering, and what no longer served me began to dissolve.
I’ve learned to surrender to discomfort, hold space for my emotions, and stay present rather than escape. I cultivated stability and ease, even in the face of challenges.
Now, I’m deeply committed to my daily practice, profoundly grateful for the strength and peace it has brought me. Yoga has nurtured not only my physical body but also my mental and spiritual resilience, encouraging self-awareness, acceptance, and a deep connection to the present moment. As my wise teacher says, “May you always remember your easeful being, known as your natural state, and may you sustain it.”
I’m learning to release fear and adapt to both my current circumstances and whatever may come. With each deep breath, I return to my natural state of ease—an anchor that keeps me grounded, no matter the storm. I’m learning to forgive the fearful, avoidant parts of myself that ran from fear for so many years, and still sometimes do. I’m also learning to understand and have compassion for that vulnerable little girl who didn’t yet have the tools to cope the way I do now.
Thank you for reading this deeply personal and vulnerable piece. I’ve been working on it for years, and it feels like the right time to share it. While I wish my journey had been easier, I am grateful that it led me to yoga, which has—and will forever—change my life.
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