The Panic Attack No One Saw

by James Peter Moon

The Georgia heat pressed against her skin like punishment.
Ellie sat outside Starbucks, staring at the patio table as if the grain of the wood might offer answers. Her purse lay open beside her, wallet half‑out, cards useless. She opened her banking app anyway — some kind of ritual, maybe — hoping the numbers might change out of pity.

They didn’t.

Checking: –$2.17.
American Express: Maxed.
Discover: Maxed.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment she thought about throwing her phone, just hurling it into traffic and letting it shatter into a thousand little reasons not to care anymore. Instead, she locked it and set it face‑down. The phone wasn’t the enemy. Life was.

She tried to breathe, but her chest felt tight. That stupid YouTube voice from this morning echoed in her head — “Today is a fresh start. Good things are coming.”
She almost laughed. Almost.

The sound that came out wasn’t really a laugh though. It was smaller. Cracked.

Her phone buzzed again. An email.
Subject: Thank you for your interview – decision update.

Her pulse spiked. Finally. Maybe this was it — maybe this was the “good thing coming.” She sat up, brushing sweaty strands of hair behind her ear, forcing her heartbeat to stay steady.

She remembered the interview clearly — the easy conversation, the way he’d smiled when they realized they were both UGA Bulldogs. He’d said, “We look after our own.” She’d believed him. She’d needed to.

Her thumb tapped the message open.

After careful consideration, we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.

Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, but the words stayed the same — flat, final, indifferent.

Something in her chest snapped.
The world tilted sideways.

Her breathing quickened. Too fast. She pressed her hand to her sternum, trying to find air. The patio was too bright, too loud — a car horn somewhere, a child laughing, the hiss of an espresso machine, everything swelling together until it was just noise.

She hunched forward, elbows on her knees, clutching herself like she might come apart if she didn’t. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her throat refused to open.

Stop. Breathe. Just breathe.

But her body didn’t listen.

Her hands tingled. Her skin felt too tight. She couldn’t tell if she was sweating or shaking — maybe both. The panic had its own gravity, pulling her inward until she was small again, fourteen years old, hiding in her room while her parents screamed at each other.

Her lips trembled. “Not now,” she whispered. “Please, not now.”

No one looked at her. No one ever did. People just walked past — busy, happy, fine.

The email still glared on her screen, the polite corporate rejection glowing like a spotlight on her failure. She stared at it until the words lost meaning.

When her breath finally began to slow, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand — quick, discreet, pretending nothing had happened. Her face felt hot and swollen.

She whispered to herself, “It’s never just one thing, is it?” and the words came out like a confession.

Her phone slipped from her grasp, hitting the concrete with a soft clack. She didn’t even reach for it right away. She just sat there, staring at the ground, watching the sunlight tremble against the edge of her shadow.

I was still trying to breathe.

Not the kind they do in YouTube yoga videos with candles and ocean sounds. No, this was the ugly kind—the kind you do when your chest tightens up out of nowhere and it feels like your lungs forgot how to be lungs. I was sitting there trying to count my breaths like Dr. Kaplan taught me: four in, hold, four out. Grounding, she called it. Said it was supposed to help with panic. Maybe it was. Maybe I just needed a minute without another curveball.

Then I heard the café door open.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look. But I could feel him before I saw him—the guy from earlier. The one with the tailored navy suit, Rolex that probably cost more than my old car, and that smug, I-own-the-block attitude. He walked out holding some overpriced drink like he was making a commercial for success.

Without even glancing at me, he barked loud enough for everyone in a two-block radius to hear:

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude—actually, I kinda do—but if you can’t buy coffee, maybe don’t waste time loafin’ around.”

Thick New York accent. Every syllable dripping with that brash, no-filter tone like he was doing me a favor by humiliating me in public.

I didn’t lift my head. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. Just stared at the sidewalk like it was the most fascinating piece of concrete I’d ever seen.

What do you think I’m trying to do? I thought. This was my twelfth interview in two months. Twelve nice-to-meet-you. Twelve outfits pressed and re-pressed. Twelve rejection emails saying, “We’ve decided to move in another direction.”

The guy hopped into his shiny BMW, turned the music up to some bass-heavy noise, and sped off like the whole street belonged to him.

I let out a breath. A real one. Not shaky. Not forced.

But it didn’t help. My chest still felt like it had forgotten how to move on its own. The air went in, but it didn’t feel like breathing. It felt like pretending.

Everyone kept walking, like they didn’t see the girl sitting in pieces on a patio chair.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe I was invisible now.

Thanks for reading, friend.

— James Peter Moon
(Korean Cowboy)

Psalm 34:18

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”

Devotional Reflection: When the No Feels Final

Sometimes it isn’t one big heartbreak that breaks us — it’s the slow, quiet kind. The rejection email. The overdraft notice. The polite “we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.”
One small “no” on top of a pile of other “no’s,” until breathing itself feels like a chore.

Ellie’s story is one most of us recognize — not because we’ve all sat outside a Starbucks crying over our bank account, but because we know what it’s like to feel unseen while the world keeps spinning. When every prayer feels unanswered, every effort wasted, and hope turns into a kind of cruel joke.

But Scripture doesn’t say “The Lord is near to those who have it together.”
It says “He is near to the brokenhearted.”
That means the very moment you feel most invisible, God is actually the closest.
He doesn’t flinch at your panic, your bitterness, or your exhaustion. He doesn’t wait for your faith to sound pretty — He sits beside you in the heat, in the noise, in the moment you can’t hold yourself together anymore.

Sometimes His presence doesn’t feel like a rescue.
It feels like survival.
Like one more breath you didn’t think you could take.
Like a whisper that says, “I’m still here.”

Real-Life Application: When You Feel Crushed

Pause Before You Pretend.
When you’re overwhelmed, resist the urge to “power through.” Stop. Let yourself feel what’s real. God isn’t asking you to fake strength — He’s offering to carry you when you have none left.
Name What Hurts.
Whether it’s financial strain, rejection, or fear, call it what it is. Healing begins when honesty does. Whisper it in prayer: “God, I feel crushed.” That confession is an invitation for Him to draw near.
Look for Small Signs of Nearness.
A kind text. A song lyric. A deep breath that doesn’t hurt. God often shows up in quiet ways, not grand gestures. The miracle isn’t always the job offer — sometimes it’s that you’re still breathing when you didn’t think you could.
Don’t Rush Redemption.
God’s timeline is rarely fast, but it’s always faithful. Even when every door slams shut, He’s still writing a story you can’t see yet. Sometimes “Just One Yes” is still on its way — His “yes,” not the world’s.

Closing Thought

You don’t have to climb out of the darkness to find God.
He climbs in with you.
And even if all you can manage today is one shaky breath, that’s enough — because He’s already close to the crushed in spirit.

🕊️ A Prayer for the Brokenhearted

Father,

For the one reading this who feels like Ellie — tired, overlooked, and crushed beneath the weight of too many “no’s” — draw near to them right now. Let them feel Your quiet presence in the middle of their chaos.

Remind them that You have not forgotten them, even when every open door seems to close. Whisper to their heart that they are still seen, still loved, still chosen.

Give them strength for one more breath, one more step, one more day.

When they can’t pray, let their tears speak for them. When they can’t see hope, let Your light find them in the dark.

Be near, Lord — because You promised You would be.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

Closing Message to the Reader

If this part of Ellie’s story spoke to something deep in you — that quiet ache you don’t tell anyone about — hold onto this truth: you are not alone, and God is closer than you think.

Ellie’s story isn’t over, and neither is yours.
Stay tuned for Blog Post 3, where we follow what happens next — the moment when a stranger’s unexpected kindness begins to shift everything.

If you haven’t read where it all began, go back to [Blog Post 1: “When The Day Starts With A Storm”] to understand Ellie’s journey from the start. Each post builds on the last, reminding us that even in our hardest moments, God is still writing something beautiful out of the broken pieces.

Short Story, Big Truth

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