I met my friend in a Facebook group for people who struggle with anxiety.
We were both living with the same fears, the same sleepless nights, the same racing heartbeat that made us believe we were about to die.
That’s what brought us together.
We started talking often. We supported each other through the rough moments — texting, calling, checking in.
We even had a deal: if one of us was having a panic attack, she’d call the other — just to talk, to keep grounded, and to make sure we were okay.
If it wasn’t just a panic attack — if one of us really was dying, as we often believed we were — at least the other one would know and could call for help.
A strange sort of safety plan. The illusion that one anxious friend could somehow save the other from death.
And for the most part, it worked.
She would call me — and I would always answer.
From work meetings, from bed, while putting my kids to sleep, even in the middle of a movie night with my family.
Because when the phone rang, I knew it was urgent.
It felt like life and death.
That’s how an anxious person feels in the middle of a panic attack.
And she’d answer me too — or at least, I hoped she would.
Sometimes she didn’t. Later, she’d text to say she’d been asleep.
I knew sleep was important to her, that she took every opportunity to rest.
I tried to understand. But I still felt hurt.
Because part of me expected the same kind of support I gave her — unconditional, immediate, present.
One day, I felt a panic attack coming on.
I was home with my kids. The anxiety kept rising — that familiar wave I already knew too well.
I didn’t want to call it a panic attack; in my mind, it was something far worse.
I thought I was having a heart attack. My chest hurt, my left arm went numb, my breathing turned shallow.
And my mind screamed: I’m dying and there’s no one here to save me.
So I grabbed my phone and called my friend, to tell her — again — that I was dying.
She picked up, but said she couldn’t talk. A friend had come over; they’d been shopping and were busy putting things away.
I didn’t have the courage to say, “Please, just stay with me on the phone — I think I’m dying.”
But it hurt. It felt unfair.
I’d been there for her, always — and when I needed her most, she wasn’t there for me.
Looking back, I can admit it: people with anxiety are hard to support.
It’s exhausting — especially for someone who’s never felt it themselves.
The first instinct is to ask:
“What’s wrong?” “Why are you acting like this?” “You’re safe, there’s nothing wrong with you — it’s all in your head.”
But for someone living with anxiety, that kind of reassurance doesn’t help.
Hearing “it’s all in your head” every day just adds another layer of guilt to the fear that already feels unbearable.
Later, I realized something deeper:
Even for someone who does have anxiety, supporting another anxious person can be overwhelming.
When you listen to someone describe their symptoms — the racing heart, the dizziness, the feeling they can’t breathe — your brain starts to mirror it.
You somatize. You absorb their anxiety.
And before you know it, you’re living not only with your own panic, but with theirs too.
At some point, I understood that our little “arrangement,” the thing that gave us both a false sense of safety, was actually making us more dependent on each other.
We were feeding each other’s fears, validating them, multiplying them.
If she told me she panicked in elevators, soon I was afraid of elevators too.
If I said I thought I’d die in a grocery store, she started avoiding stores altogether.
It became an endless exchange of anxiety.
One day I told her, “I feel like we’re catching each other’s fears.”
She said no, she didn’t feel that way.
But I did. I could feel the emotional contagion between us.
Neither of us was trained to truly help the other.
Even therapists — people who are educated and grounded — can feel emotionally drained after sessions.
We were just two wounded souls trying to bandage each other’s cuts.
What I Learned From a Mental Health First Responder Course
Over the years, I’ve taken different courses, including at work, on emotional well-being and mental health — “Mental Health First Responder” training, they called it.
And yet, something I heard there really didn’t sit right with me.
The advice was:
If a coworker struggles with anxiety or depression, listen, show empathy, and then say,
“Let’s check in again next week.”
If they’re still struggling after that, refer them to a therapist or psychiatrist.
I understand the logic. The boundaries. The system.
But as someone who has been the anxious person — that didn’t sound right.
When you’re in the middle of a panic attack, a week feels like forever.
Even hearing “let’s talk tomorrow” can feel unbearable — but “let’s talk next week”?
It’s like watching someone drown and saying you’ll come back when the waves calm down.
I understand the principle: you can’t pour from an empty cup. You have to protect your own energy.
But real help isn’t about disappearing entirely.
You can teach someone to breathe, share a grounding exercise, send them something to read or listen to — give them a life ring if you can’t offer a boat.
But leaving them alone in the middle of the ocean and saying, “See you in a week,” just feels wrong.
What I’ve Learned, in the End
You can be there for someone. You can love them, listen to them, understand them —
and still set boundaries.
Because you can’t pour from an empty cup.
And it’s okay to say:
“I love you, I understand you — but I also need a breath.”
How to Support Someone With Anxiety — Without Losing Yourself
Being close to someone who lives with anxiety can be challenging.
Sometimes you feel helpless, other times drained.
But there are healthy ways to be supportive — for them and for you.
1. Listen without judgment or the need to fix.
You don’t have to find a solution.
During a panic attack, logic doesn’t help — calm presence does.
“I’m here with you. You’re not alone.”
Sometimes, just being there means more than anything else.
2. Don’t minimize their fear.
Avoid saying things like “You have nothing to worry about” or “It’s all in your head.”
For the anxious person, the fear feels real — even if the danger isn’t.
“I know this is hard right now. It’ll pass. Let’s breathe together.”
3. Bring them back to the present.
A panic attack is a storm of “what ifs.”
Grounding techniques can help:
“Tell me five things you can see.”
“What color is the wall?”
“What can you smell right now?”
It may sound simple, but it brings the mind back to now.
4. Encourage professional help.
You can be emotional support, but you’re not their therapist — and that’s okay.
Encourage them to reach out to a counselor, psychologist, or therapist.
Professionals can help without burning out the way friends often do.
5. Take care of yourself.
If you’re constantly on high alert for someone else, you’ll eventually run out of energy.
Rest. Disconnect. Do things that bring you calm.
It’s not selfish — it’s emotional survival.
6. Set healthy boundaries.
You can be available, but not all the time.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can.”
“I can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you after work.”
Boundaries don’t destroy relationships — they protect them.
And If You’re the One Living With Anxiety…
- Learn to recognize the early signs of a panic attack — and remind yourself it’s not fatal.
- You’re not dying. Your body is just overreacting.
- Breathe slowly and deeply. Your breath is your anchor.
- Journal your thoughts — sometimes seeing them on paper helps you sort them out.
- Don’t be ashamed to ask for help. Therapy isn’t weakness — it’s courage.
- Remember: you are not your anxiety. It’s only one part of you asking to be seen.
Real support isn’t carrying someone else’s weight — it’s walking beside them.
Holding their hand, but not taking their path.
That’s how we both find calm — each on our own two feet.