24/07/2026
Movement Saved Me More Than Once
I was 12 years old when I had my first panic attack.
It was recess. One moment I was standing in the school yard, and the next I couldn't breathe. I dropped to the ground, desperately trying to catch my breath. I couldn't speak. A crowd of students gathered around me, and with every person who stared, it became harder to breathe.
I truly thought I was dying.
Then, a teacher, Ms. Hathaway, made her way through the crowd. She sat beside me, spoke softly, and guided my breathing until I found my breath again.
It was 1991. I don't remember anyone calling it anxiety or a panic attack. There wasn't language around mental health the way there is today. I simply prayed it would never happen again.
Two years later, one of my teachers gave me a graduation gift: a door hanger that read, "Don't Worry, Be Happy."
It wasn't just a popular song at the time. Looking back, I realize it was how people saw me. Someone who carried more worry than joy.
Throughout high school, those feelings would occasionally return. Whenever they did, I would mentally go back to that moment with Ms. Hathaway, hearing her calm voice reminding me to breathe. Afterwards, I would often isolate myself for a few days, hiding in my bedroom... behind the door with that "Don't Worry, Be Happy" sign hanging on it.
In my first year of university, I took an introductory psychology course. We were offered bonus marks if we met with psychology students completing their clinical hours.
In 1998, therapy carried a stigma. Seeking help wasn't viewed as taking care of your mental health—it was often viewed as being mentally ill.
But I loved those conversations.
When the free sessions ended, I eventually began taking medication to help manage my anxiety.
At the same time, I was attending university full time, working nearly full-time hours, and competing on my university's national cheerleading team. I was in incredible physical shape and spent nearly every spare moment at the gym.
Without realizing it, I had already discovered one of the greatest tools for managing my mental health.
The gym had become my happy place.
A few years later, while completing my Master's degree, life slowed down a little. I worked fewer hours, joined a different cheer team with a lighter schedule, and continued making movement a priority. During that season, I was able to come off my medication.
As my teaching career began and I finally had benefits, therapy became a regular part of my life again. I prioritized it, although for many years it still felt like my little secret.
Over time I realized something important.
My emotional regulation wasn't built on one thing.
It was built on conversations.
It was built on movement.
It was built on giving myself permission to ask for help.
Then life happened.
The loss of my premature triplet boys.
A difficult divorce.
A global pandemic.
Even though I was eating well, exercising at home, and speaking with my psychologist, the panic attacks returned with a vengeance. At times they became so severe that I would black out.
That's when I noticed something.
Almost every time I had a panic attack, it was on a day I had skipped my morning workout.
That realization changed everything.
Movement stopped being about calories.
It stopped being about appearance.
It became medicine.
Now, if anxiety starts creeping in, I move.
Sometimes it's a workout.
Sometimes it's dancing or a ride.
Sometimes it's simply a walk around the block.
I move because I know what it does for my brain. It helps boost those feel-good chemicals, clears my mind, and reminds my nervous system that I'm safe.
Do I still struggle?
Absolutely.
Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is something I continue to manage, especially during our long Canadian winters. This past winter—my first without my mom—was especially difficult. Along with nutritious food, regular movement, therapy, and leaning on people I trust, I also chose to use a low-dose serotonin medication.
There is no shame in using every healthy tool available to you.
Today, when I encourage people to move their bodies, it isn't because I want everyone to lose weight.
It's because I know what movement has done for me.
It has given me strength.
It has given me clarity.
It has given me resilience.
Some days...
It has given me my life back.
If you're struggling, please know this: you don't have to carry it alone. Whether it's therapy, medication, movement, community, or a combination of all of them, asking for help isn't weakness.
It's courage.
And sometimes, the first step toward healing simply starts with taking one step forward.
