It was well past midnight. The house slept in complete silence, the city lights dimmed to a distant glow. Yahya sat wrapped in his heavy blanket, the only light source the soft glow of his phone against his tired face. The list of local therapists, which his father had scorned, was still open on his screen. He knew he couldn’t call them yet, not with his family watching.
This time, his search was different. It was less about finding a doctor and more about finding immediate, personal protection. He typed a focused query:
“panic attack self help strategies”
The screen filled with links. Most were loud, clinical, or confusing, using words that sounded distant and cold.
Then one stood out like a small beacon in the dark: MindCovez.com — Healing the Mind, Quietly and Kindly
He clicked the link, feeling a small, nervous surge of hope.
For once, the words didn’t talk at him or tell him to drink water. They spoke to him, gentle and understanding. The site wasn’t judgmental.
“It’s not weakness. It’s your mind screaming for balance.”
He exhaled slowly, a long, quiet breath that seemed to loosen a knot in his chest. Someone, somewhere, finally understood.
The Tools of Calm
He tapped the section titled Coping Techniques. The page opened like a soft-spoken teacher, guiding him step by step, replacing the failed rituals of incense and knotted thread with practical, immediate actions.
First, the 5-4-3-2-1 Technique.
The instruction was simple: Ground yourself in the now. Identify five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one thing you can taste.
Next, Box Breathing.
Breathe like the ocean tide. The process was a perfect square:
Inhale for 4 seconds
Hold for 4
Exhale for 4
Hold for 4
Repeat. It was structure imposed on chaos.
He found Progressive Muscle Relaxation:
Tense, then release. Let the stress escape. Start from the toes, work upward, forcing the muscles to let go of the tension they held captive.
Finally, Distraction and Focus Objects:
Your mind can’t hold fear and creativity at once. The suggestion was to draw, hum a tune, or touch a familiar object—something real and solid.
He read each line twice, as if memorizing a language of calm he had desperately needed his whole life. For the first time, he felt seen, validated by science and kindness.
He opened a new note on his phone and titled it “Mind Notes.” He typed out his new creed:
Panic attack ≠ death My breath is my anchor MindCovez = my space now No smoke. No superstition. No shame. Just science, softness, and steps.
The Test
The next attack came without warning, proving that the monster still lurked, but now Yahya was prepared.
He was standing in a grocery-store line. The fluorescent lights were too bright, the air too thick and sweet, the noise of the scanners and chattering people too sharp.
His chest tightened instantly. His vision began to tunnel, and the familiar wave of sheer terror threatened to engulf him.
But this time—he remembered the training.
He didn’t run. He stepped aside, leaned against the cold brick wall next to the magazine rack, and closed his eyes.
He began the 5-4-3-2-1 technique.
- Five things he could see:
The red soda can on the shelf. The silver handle of the shopping cart. The cashier’s tired smile. A small boy’s striped shirt. A colorful hanging banner advertising cheese.
- Four things he could touch:
The cold, rough wall. A crumpled receipt in his pocket. His keys, their shape familiar. The rough denim on his knee.
- Three things he could hear:
The sharp beep of the scanner. A child’s distant laugh. The low hum of the refrigeration unit.
- Two things he could smell:
The faint, sweet scent of oranges nearby. The sharp, clean smell of floor cleaner.
- One thing he could taste:
The cool, lingering flavor of the mint gum he’d chewed earlier.
He kept his eyes closed and shifted to Box Breathing. Four in. Four hold. Four out. Four hold. Repeat. He focused only on the geometric shape of the breath, imposing order on his frantic lungs.
The storm began to shrink. It didn’t vanish instantly, but it retreated. His heartbeat slowed from a frantic hammer to a heavy drum. The fuzzy edges of the world softened back into focus.
Rebuilding
Yahya pressed a hand over his chest. His heart was still there—still wild, still human—but it was no longer the enemy. He had communicated with it, anchored it back to reality.
For the first time, he walked away from a panic attack without the crushing weight of fear and shame.
He didn’t need permission from his father.
He didn’t need useless rituals or black threads.
He didn’t need to hide.
He needed tools—and now he had them.
Standing in that bright, fluorescent aisle, surrounded by strangers who noticed nothing, Yahya understood something monumental: He was not broken. The fortress had collapsed, but he was actively, quietly, rebuilding it with science and intention.