Travelling to other schools for volleyball games had always been a little bit nerve-racking, even if it was the home of a team I was confident we could beat. But something about this one felt different. It was almost uncanny, the way the walls were painted dull colors, the ceiling too close for comfort. It felt like some sort of trap, but I pushed the feeling away.

In the gym, we warmed up like usual and began to play the game. As time went on, a voice in my head told me that if the game didn’t go well, it was my fault. That I wasn’t allowed to mess up at all. So I pushed harder to the point of complete exhaustion, inevitably making mistakes anyway.

When we got a break, Coach told us, “Come into the hallway.”

Her pep talk faded in and out of focus. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even play my sport, the one I’d been practicing for nearly five years. My ribs began to cave in, forming a fist with a white-knuckled grip around my heart. I tried to remember how to inhale and exhale, telling myself I couldn’t break down like this in front of everyone. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt a wave of anxiety creeping up on me, yet every time it did, I couldn’t help but feel shame, like I was being too dramatic and I should be able to take care of myself at this point as a junior in high school. I needed to hide this part of me.

Coach told us, “You can beat this team. Get out of your heads, get back in there, and finish the game.”

Right as the last person walked back into the gym, I couldn’t hold it together anymore. Everything collapsed.

I took short, hiccuping breaths, head feeling too light to stay attached to my body, vision blurring. I wanted to claw the skin off my body, exposing my bare lungs so they could take in oxygen. My eyes were dry, struggling to produce tears. I needed to feel something more intense, something real that could ground me. I cupped my head in my hands to try and make the world stop spinning, ending up with my back pressed against the wall.

The only thing I managed to choke out was, “I can’t—I can’t breathe.”

It came out like the sort of laughter when you have to gasp for air. I just kept repeating those words because I didn’t know what else to do. My friend held my hands tight, trying her best to calm me down and tell me everything would be okay. That this game wasn’t the end of the world. But I couldn’t break free from the panic that had completely overtaken me.

Then my younger sister walked out of the gym and saw me, which felt horrible because I wanted her to think I would always be fine, though she knew how I’ve struggled with panic attacks like this. I thought if she saw me struggle, her world would fall apart. Yet without saying anything, she came over and wrapped her arms around me, which was the only thing that managed to calm me down. We sat there for a while as I gathered my thoughts, remembering that volleyball is just a sport—one that everyone makes mistakes in.

Taking my time, I stood up again to walk back into the chaos of the gym, my friend and my sister by my side. I was ready to step back on the court and play for my team the way they needed me to. Though it was hard, we ended up working together, pushing through and winning the game. In the end, I realized that no matter how many mistakes I made, I was surrounded by people who had always supported me, and that’s something I’ll never forget.

© Piper. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.