The Panic Attack That Made Me Question Everything
It’s almost 4 pm. It’s August. I’m on the 1 train headed uptown from my client at Chelsea Market back to the EY office at 5 Times Square. I’m 26 and wearing my favorite tan linen skirt suit—with pantyhose and close-toed shoes, because yes, that was still expected at the time.
The train pulls into 34th Street, and suddenly, this high-pitched ringing floods my ears—not the kind I’m used to from metal concerts and standing too close to amps. (Yes, I’ve paid the price—I’ve worn hearing aids since I was 38.) My heart starts pounding. I’m sweating. My vision narrows. And then it feels like everyone in the subway car climbs onto my chest at once.
I don’t remember the ride to 42nd, but I remember bolting up the stairs. I fumbled for my BlackBerry, barely made it to the stairs across from the Nederlander Theatre, where RENT was still playing, and called my boyfriend. “Call 911,” I told him. “I’m having a heart attack.”
I sat on the cold tile in the lobby of 5 Times Square while all 38 floors emptied out for their rush hour commute. The ambulance took 45 minutes. I remember thinking, “If I really was having a heart attack, I’d be dead by now. Noted—for future reference in my old age.”
When the EMTs finally arrived, they took my vitals, asked a few questions, and stood up.
“You’re fine,” they said.
I was not fine.
I went home, embarrassed and terrified. Something had to be wrong. MS? A heart condition? Cancer? Over the next five weeks, I called out of work and saw every doctor on the east side of Manhattan, telling the same story so many times I felt like recording it.
Eventually, one word came back:
Panic.
My first panic attack. Not my last.
For the next 15 years, panic would follow me—on planes, in cars, in bed, at parties, in boardrooms. It didn’t matter how successful or “put together” I looked. My body always knew when I was lying to myself. Hurting myself. Plain unhappy.
My mental health had been on a slow decline for years. I had worked since I was 14. Worked full-time through most of college. Passed the CPA. Jumped into management consulting. Flew out every Sunday, worked all week, and came home late Fridays. Poured a few martinis on top of the burnout just to take the edge off.
But what I didn’t realize at the time—what I wouldn’t be able to articulate for years—was that I was also silently beginning my Lady NoKids journey.
And I was trying so damn hard to fight it.
At the time, I was in a relationship with an Albanian man—we’ll call him T. He was older, family-oriented, and crystal clear about what he wanted: a wife, children, and a big, traditional home life.
I was 26. I was thinking about travel, beach days, getting out of my job, and maybe applying for my MBA. Kids? I hadn’t even gotten rid of my futon yet.
As the relationship dragged on, the pressure mounted. The criticism started:
“You’re immature.”
“Grow up.”
“Is this how you plan to be as a wife?”
“You can’t be a mother.”
On occasion, he’d touch my stomach and say, “Won’t it be great when there is a baby there?”. I almost vomited in my mouth.
And the worst part? I tried. I wanted to want what he wanted. I tried to force it, fake it, perform it.
But I couldn’t. I didn’t. And I cracked.
That breakdown on the 1 train was the cost of trying to perform a life I didn’t believe in.
And it wasn’t just T—it was everyone. At weddings. At baby showers. At work. With family. Strangers. Coworkers.
“Don’t you want kids?”
“You’ll change your mind.”
“You don’t know love until you’re a mother.”
“You’ll be lonely.”
These aren’t questions. They’re scripts. And they come dressed as concern but land as judgment.
So I smiled. I grinned. I bore it. But in the back of my head?
WHAT THE HELL IS EVERYONE’S PROBLEM?
Here’s what I know now:
Mental health is a child-free issue.
Not because we’re broken or bitter or missing something—but because we are constantly absorbing messages that tell us we are.
Because our lives don’t have socially sanctioned off-ramps. No “maternity leave” to justify rest. No built-in pause button. Because we’re seen as the ones who should always be available, flexible, and grateful.
Because our freedom is assumed to mean limitless energy, boundless joy, and no reason to complain.
And that’s a lie.
It’s a lie that costs too many of us our peace, our confidence, and sometimes, our breath on a subway platform.
So why am I telling you this?
Because this—the messy, scary, real stuff—is why Lady NoKids exists.
It’s not just about wine nights and travel tips. It’s about building a blueprint for a life that doesn't have kids at the center—and not falling apart in the process.
It’s about mental health, self-trust, boundaries, community, and unlearning all the garbage we’ve been fed about who we’re supposed to be.
So if you’ve ever quietly wondered “What if I don’t want this?”—about kids, marriage, gender roles, or any of it—I want you to know something:
You're not selfish.
You're not broken.
You're not alone.
