That time Reese Witherspoon gave me a panic attack

Not technically her fault, but still.

No spoilers, I promise, but holy shit The Morning Show did a number on me last week.

Granted, at the time I was in the throes of a nasty sinus infection, already feeling sorry for myself, and frankly overdue for a good cry. Not to mention stressing about launching this new

Substack

venture from my sickbed. Also, perhaps you’ve noticed that the world is ablaze?

Still, I hadn’t had a God’s-honest panic attack in . . . I don’t even know how long (which for me is really saying something), and then about three-quarters of the way into season 3, episode 5 of a prestige streamer, I started crying, shaking, and hyperventilating on my couch like I’d just met the Beatles backstage at Ed Sullivan.

My inner monologue went something like this:

What is going on? <futile attempts to inhale oxygen>

Why is this happening?? <coughs, chokes, sobs>

BUT I’VE BEEN DOING SO WELL LATELY!!! <sobbing continues for ten solid minutes>

For context: at the time of this sudden, epic assault on my most important bodily function (aka breathing), I’d been in regular therapy for almost a year; I’d spent a few months recovering from a multi-years-in-the-making case of burnout; and I’d been exercising daily since July, which is a “pigs must be flying” scenario if ever there was. I’d also been getting in touch with some deep-rooted anger issues that I’d naively thought for forty-four years I did not possess, and that work had been making a major difference in my overall health, energy levels, and general outlook on life.

And yet.

A ninety-second scene of Miss Hello Sunshine herself portraying a fictional TV journalist on a fictional TV show on Apple+ sent me right over the fucking cliff.

credit: Paul Smith/Featureflash

If you saw the episode in question, you may have an inkling as to what propelled my brain into fight-or-flight mode, whether or not it rubbed your autonomic nervous system in quite the same way. You might be like Sing it, sister! That was all kinds of fucked up and panic-inducing!

Or you might be more I see where you’re coming from, but it’s just a TV show, you Silly Willy.

Or you might not get it even a little bit, so blissfully quiet is your amygdala (aka your “emotional brain”) in the face of your frontal lobe (aka your “cognitive brain”). Which is good for you and for Apple+, because if everybody watching reacted like I did they’d probably have to cancel the show mid-season and lawyer up for a serious Class Action suit. Ironically, this would be a fun plotline to watch Billy Crudup try to squirm his way out of.

ANYWAY.

You don’t actually have to have seen it—or follow The Morning Show at all—to pick up what I’m about to put down here, which is that anxiety disorder is sneaky AF, managing it is a work-in-progress, and even a type-A overachiever like me will probably never be able to cross it off of her to-do list.

This is incredibly frustrating, especially since it also applies to depression and PTSD and plenty more conditions that you and I and/or people we know may be suffering from, no matter how valiantly we dedicate ourselves to identifying and taming them.

Mental illness: she finds a way!

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In 2009, my first panic attack left me seeing stars and gasping for air in my midtown Manhattan office. I didn’t know what was happening, so logically I assumed I’d been poisoned. Another one found me face-planted on the floor of a Brooklyn deli, having narrowly avoided taking a six-foot-tall display of Pringles down with me.

Since those days, I’ve added a lot of tools to my anti-anxiety kit. I got a diagnosis, for one. (Not poisoned!) I did a few months of biofeedback in a doctor’s office; I went on medication, both daily (Zoloft) and as-needed (Xanax); I journaled.

I practice all kinds of self-care, from the aforementioned medical interventions to low-key activities like reading, communing with stray cats, and taking a bath whenever a tub presents itself. I may or may not have developed an expensive scented candle habit. In 2016, I MOVED TO A FRIGGING TROPICAL ISLAND.

In 2019, I wrote a whole-ass bestselling book about how to manage anxiety, sharing everything I’d been taught plus lots of stuff I figured out on my own, unencumbered as I am by a “medical degree” or any kind of silly “board certification process.” If my DMs are any indication, it’s helped a few hundred thousand people around the world beef up their toolkits, too.

And yet.

Anxiety disorder is sneaky AF, managing it is a work-in-progress, and even a type-A overachiever like me will probably never be able to cross it off of my to-do list.

In the years since I published Calm the Fuck Down, there’ve been many more challenges with which my overactive reptile brain has had to grapple, including but not limited to: surviving a global plague; hitting a few insane work deadlines; launching a podcast with no idea what the fuck I was doing; and navigating the messy end of a twenty-year friendship. This is all part of what we call “life,” and I’ve had to accept that in my life—and despite all of the armchair expertise I’ve amassed—the hits are going to keep on coming.

(Where hits = panic attacks, in case that wasn’t clear.)

So, I keep adding tools to my kit.

In 2020, I started meditating, which was another “pigs flying” moment for yours truly, but guess what? It helped! Bonus: on the Calm app, you can get Cillian Murphy, Idris Elba, and Harry Styles to read you bedtime stories. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

In 2021, with guidance from my doctor, I upped my Zoloft prescription.

In 2022, and after a couple of false starts, I got into therapy with someone who’s been extremely helpful in sorting out my shit. It is literally the only Zoom call I have ever looked forward to.

Honestly, I’VE BEEN DOING SO WELL LATELY!!!

AND. YET.

All of this is to say, if you’re anything like me when it comes to anxiety, you have my deep and abiding empathy. I hope you have your own set of tools, and you should always feel free to borrow from mine. Plenty of stray cats and Xanax to go around.

If you’re nothing like me, first of all—JEALOUS—but I bet you know someone who is. If you think they could use a dose of solidarity on this fine day, by all means, tell ‘em where to find me.

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A bit about me: I spent 15 years as a book editor in NYC before quitting that career to pursue a freelance life (a decision that involved a lot of red wine and a lot of tears). In 2015 I had the idea for my first book, The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck. And people loved it, so I kept writing! Today my sweary self-help series includes Get Your Shit Together, Calm the Fuck Down, Grow the Fuck Up, and more, with 3 million copies in print all over the world. You can also find me on Instagram, where my content skews tropical (in addition to quitting my job, I quit New York entirely and moved to a small fishing village in the Dominican Republic), plus food, cocktails, travel, and cats. So many cats.