From “Suck It Up” to Speaking Out: My Way Through Panic Disorder and Depression

by Dale Phillips

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

I grew up in a home where “toughing it out” was the go-to solution for all discomfort. From a young age, I learned to hide my feelings under layers of stoicism. My dad, an ex-military guy, thought showing emotion was a sign of weakness. “Real men don’t cry,” he’d tell me if I showed even a bit of vulnerability. So I didn’t. Naturally, I never thought I’d have issues with my mental health.

By the time I hit 25, I had seemingly built a perfect life. I finished college with top grades, scored a great job at a big-name marketing company in Chicago, and had just said yes to marrying Emma, my college girlfriend. If you looked at me from the outside, I was killing it—I fit the picture of success. But here’s the thing: no one, not even Emma, knew what was piling up inside me.

It started with short instances when I struggled to catch my breath during presentations. One specific Thursday morning stands out—we were pitching to our biggest client. My voice faltered. The room seemed to shrink around me. My coworker, Sarah, noticed and asked if I needed a drink. After that meeting, I felt rattled. I spent the next twenty minutes in my car trying to catch my breath. I blamed it on too much coffee or not enough sleep. Then my heart would race as I drove on the highway, which I brushed off as overwork. Then, one day in 2018, I finally fell apart. I was sitting in one of my meetings when my chest tightened, my vision shrank, and I thought I was about to die. My hands shook as sweat soaked my shirt. I couldn’t breathe, think, or talk. I stumbled out of the conference room and fell into a bathroom stall. I spent almost an hour curled up in a bathroom stall before my team leader, Mark, found me and called for help. I remember feeling so ashamed as my coworkers watched the paramedics lead me to the ambulance.

“You’re in perfect health,” the ER doctor said after running tests. What happened to you was a panic attack,” he explained. “I suggest you see your regular doctor to talk about ways to manage anxiety.”

I nodded but, internally, I couldn’t buy her diagnosis. Anxiety? Panic? Those were issues for people who couldn’t cope with life’s challenges, not for someone like me. I could hear my dad’s words in my head: “Just push through it. Mind over matter.”

My dad was the picture of stoicism. When I was twelve, I watched him build our deck with a bruised hand. My mom suggested he rest, but he gave her a look that shut down the conversation. He’d say, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” When he wasn’t around, my mother would sneak me a hug after he’d told me off for being “soft.” I was the emotional one and, throughout my childhood, I tried to prove that I was as tough as my dad and brother.

After the ER visit, I did what I always do—I pushed it down and threw myself into work. I started showing up at the office an hour early and heading home two hours late. I took on more projects, raising my hand to take on every high-stress project I could find. I figured if I kept myself busy enough, these “episodes” would magically disappear.

They didn’t. Within three months, my world shrank as my fear imploded. Emma spotted the shift immediately. “You’re not acting like yourself anymore,” she told me one night after I turned down another dinner with friends. “You don’t step out of the apartment except for work. What’s happening?” I couldn’t explain to her something that even I couldn’t fully understand yet. How could I tell her that I, the dependable, tough partner she’d picked, was crumbling inside? The embarrassment crushed me. So I dodged all her questions, made up excuses, and soon, we fought more than we talked.

One day, Emma discovered me huddled in the shower, completely dressed, with cold water pouring over me as I struggled to breathe during another episode. She delivered an ultimatum: “Get help or I’m leaving.” Her stark statement sliced through my refusal to accept reality in a way nothing else could have. The thought of losing her, the sole remaining light in my bleak life, served as the push I needed to take action.

The following Monday, I sat anxiously in a psychologist‘s waiting room, fidgeting mindlessly with a magazine. Dr. Sharma, kind eyes and gentle voice, listened to me describe my situation despite my not wanting to utter a word. As we sat there, I tried to downplay, justify, and minimize my experiences. I still couldn’t accept that something was wrong.

“Your experiences point to panic disorder,” she said softly. “And, from what you’ve told me about your persistent low mood, fatigue, and disinterest in activities you once enjoyed, you’re struggling with depression, too.”

My gut reaction was to fight back and prove that she was mistaken. But I felt drained from battling an unseen foe, pretending to have it all together when I was crumbling inside. For the first time, I let myself think that perhaps I should let my guard down and ask for help.

“This isn’t weakness, Dale,” Dr. Sharma continued, as if she could read my mind. “Panic disorder and depression are real health issues involving brain chemistry and learned reactions to stress. They’re no more a choice or a character flaw than diabetes or asthma.”

That first appointment kicked off what turned out to be the toughest and most crucial work I’d ever tackled. Over the next few months, I kept up with cognitive behavioral therapy to manage my panic symptoms. Little by little, I began to understand how my thought patterns influenced my anxiety and depression. The toughest part was exploring my childhood experiences that had taught me to suppress emotions rather than face them. As I looked back on these memories, I started to feel empathy for my younger self—a kid who just needed someone to allow him to feel without judgment.

At the same time, a big fragment of my personal life was falling apart. Despite my attempts to seek help and get better, Emma decided she couldn’t deal with the uncertainty that came with my condition. Six months after my first panic attack, she broke off our engagement. This crushed me, but in some ways, I saw it coming. I did not know myself anymore—how could I expect her to stick with someone who had fundamentally changed?

The breakup pushed me into a deeper depression. I went on medical leave when my depleting mental health no longer allowed me to keep working. Days ran together as I got out of bed. The panic attacks kept coming, now joined by a constant emptiness that made even simple tasks seem impossible.

“This is rock bottom,” I told Dr. Sharma during a tough session. “I’ve lost everything that mattered.”

“Perhaps,” she replied after a pause, “but rock bottom can serve as a foundation to build on.”

Her words stuck with me, though I didn’t grasp their meaning until later.

A breakthrough happened about a year into my treatment, during a group therapy session I had recently joined. As I heard others from diverse backgrounds talk about experiences like mine, I felt something change inside. For the first time, I didn’t feel isolated in my battle. These weren’t weak individuals; they were some of the toughest people I’d ever encountered.

One member, Miguel, a former firefighter who was diagnosed with PTSD and panic disorder after a traumatic event, said something that forever changed how I saw things: “The strongest thing I ever did wasn’t running into burning buildings. It was admitting I couldn’t handle everything alone and asking for help.”

Step by step, I started to build my life anew. I landed a job at a smaller firm with a more helpful work environment. I got back in touch with friends I’d avoided opening up about my problems with in the past. Some friendships didn’t survive this shift, but others grew stronger than I’d ever imagined. Above all, I began to treat myself with real kindness. The critical voice in my head that had run the show for years, a voice very similar to my dad’s, started to quiet down. I got better at spotting the early signs of both anxiety and low mood, taking action before things could escalate.

Two years after my first devastating panic attack, I decided to give a talk at a mental health event at a nearby community center. As I stood behind the podium, looking at the crowd of strange faces, I felt a sudden sense of connection. I knew many of these people were fighting similar battles. For the first time, I shared my experience without feeling embarrassed.

“Mental illness becomes more powerful when we stay quiet and isolated,” I told them. “Every time we talk about our challenges, we tear down the walls that prevent many people from seeking the help they need.”

That day marked a major turning point in my recovery. Using my experience to support others gave meaning to the suffering that once seemed useless. I began volunteering with mental health organizations, and later joined the board of a local group that aims to improve access to treatment in underserved areas.

Today, four years after my diagnosis, I still face challenging days. I continue to take medication and visit my therapist. My panic attacks still occur, but less than before. Depression still emerges during periods of stress. The difference now, though, is that I see mental health as a part of my overall health, not as an abnormal flaw that defines me entirely. I’ve built ways to cope with challenges and setbacks, surrounding myself with people who get what I’m going through and have my back.

The most unexpected change has been in my connection with my dad. My sister told him to come to one of my talks. He sat at the back, arms folded defensively, as I spoke about my breakdown and how I got better. He waited for everyone to leave before he came up to me with tears in his eyes.

“I never let you have feelings,” he said. “Because I never let myself have them either.”

It took a few uncomfortable talks over the next few months, but bit by bit, he started to share pieces of what he went through in combat—nightmares, overwhelming panic brushed off as “just being out of breath,” and unprocessed grief. At 72, he agreed to see a therapist specializing in veterans with trauma. Our bond has changed as we’ve both figured out better ways to handle and express our emotions. These days, believe it or not, he rings me up after his therapy sessions to talk about how he’s doing.

Recovery doesn’t mean becoming the person you were before you started struggling with your mental health. Instead, it means growing into a newer, healthier version of yourself—someone with more understanding, better ways to cope, and genuine connections. It means finding purpose within your pain and turning isolation into a sense of community.

Mental illness changed the course of my life, but seeking help and recovering has taken me to a fuller, more satisfying life than I ever thought possible. This makes me grateful.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR: Gabriel Nathan | EDITOR: Kavita Sarmah | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman