Ubud Bali 2018: Yoga Teacher Training 6am practice: The sun hadn’t yet risen and I was already gasping for air. Another hyperventilating panic attack, triggered by a sappy song that touched my suffering soul. I tried futilely to hide in child’s pose, but eventually had to slink out of the room.

Sitting on a bench, head between my legs crying not breathing, a soft hand touched my back. Melanie, our anatomy expert, began instructing me to take big, slow breaths. My Clonazepam was back in the room and I was too incapacitated to seek it… so I surrendered, following her cues. She held me in her arms, a pillar of compassionate strength impervious to my sweat, snot, tears, and chaos. It took a long time but little by little my energy aligned with hers. Breaths came back, calm was restored.

I was 35 and that was the first time I’d ever made it through a panic attack without drugs. I was finally desperate enough to let someone help me and hold me; to try something new. A window of possibility opened up. Could it be true I actually had some control over my own breath?

I’d been having hyperventilating panic attacks since I was 12 years old. They were part of my “born broken” package. Repeatedly doctors told me I’d inherited anxiety, depression, and bi-polar—and would need to be medicated for life.

I did a great job fulfilling my crazy person destiny! Along with panic attacks I was an alcoholic, a smoker, took cocktails of mental health drugs, struggled with disordered eating, participated in toxic abusive romantic and work relationships, knelt in the street screaming, was hospitalized multiple times, taken out of work on mental health disability, and somehow survived two suicide attempts. A bonafide hot mess worthy of her diagnosis labels!

It was after the second suicide attempt, while crippled post-hip surgery with a wounded shoulder in my lowest of low isolation depression holes that I declared: “These pills aren’t working!” I’d been taking them for decades and I was getting WORSE not better.

When I told the doctor this he said, “Ah, well, you seem to be handling the Viibryd pretty well, why not give it a little longer?” I’d been on it for two years and had had two suicide attempts. Seriously, Sir? That’s what triggered my rebel. I was done with the system, it wasn’t serving me. I stopped listening to doctors and started looking for REAL healing.

Yoga was my gateway to begin exploring deeper spirituality. In a restorative class, hugging my bolster, the message of self-compassion finally hit. I realized I’d been awful to my own self my entire life. I had this cruel inner voice that said things like, “Amber, you don’t deserve to be alive! I wish I could crawl out of my skin and escape you because you’re so worthless!” I’d hated me so much I’d literally tried to KILL me! No wonder I wasn’t thriving!

Later at home, weeping, I knelt in front of the mirror and said: “Amber, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’ve been so awful to you. I promise to start taking care of you. I promise to be kind to you.”

That mirror moment changed everything—it was the start of my healing journey. One that had many twists, turns, and bizarre synchronicities. I had to start with basics like cleaning up my alcoholism. There were layers of issues to pull back, but I did it little by little. Bravely facing myself, eating my own dysfunction onion. The universe surprised me with gifts and guides, like Melanie.

The magic took me to Bali. I had to drop out of that yoga teacher training because of the panic attacks… BUT that’s when I began chanting mantras. I’d been in talk therapy for decades and seen ALL the doctors. When I finally turned to the divine and began using ancient healing technologies that move energy through the body—like yoga, meditation, breathwork, and chanting—THAT’s when things started to actually change.

Guess what? I discovered that I could calm myself down. I discovered that I could train my brain and nervous system, that I could use these sacred practices to move my own energy with intention. I discovered that I wasn’t a victim of my crazy—I have power over my own body and mind. We all do. This news was mind-blowing for me and I made brain training a priority in daily practices.

Somehow I made it to Mexico where a transpersonal therapist / shaman convinced me that I could do life without the drugs. My detox was gnarly; I’d been taking Clonazepam daily for 18 years. At that time I was also on Wellbutrin (an antidepressant) plus Lamictal (a mood stabilizer) and I did a ridiculous, uninformed six-week taper. As a result, I was out of commission, feeling horrible dealing with a gnarly detox for the better part of a year. Somehow I weathered through alone in a foreign country curled in bed with hope and mantras to soothe me. I just wanted to know who I was without all those drugs. Okay, maybe I had a dash of stubborn tenacity too: I HAD to know who I was without all those drugs. I’d been on them since I was 12. I didn’t know any other reality.

Turns out I’m not broken at all. I’m SO much better now on the other side of withdrawal. I began sleeping for the first time in my life. My spiritual practices gave me an anchor. I had to do deep soul work, face my shadows, and cry out all the crap I’d been dissociating from during 22 years of psych drugs. Worth it work!! I finally got to discover who Amber really is: turns out she’s a soulful, grounded, magical, badass rebel heroine.

I began sharing mantras in beautiful Kirtan events. Now I have a company called Mental Health Rebels where I promote mental freedom and evangelize the healing medicine of energy work practices and deep shamanic soul diving.

2020, Mexico City, Shaman School: We were practicing intentional states of catharsis and it was my turn to be on the floor and scream it out. For the first time ever, I didn’t try and stop hyperventilating. I went all-in: letting the pain and frustration run through my body. I wailed, I wept, I pounded my fists on the floor, gasping for air, dripping sweat. A beloved friend grabbed my hands, braced his feet against mine, and commanded “¡Sueltalo!” LET IT OUT. I pulled and pushed against him with all the strength in my body, old pent-up pain oozing out of my muscles along with a dragon scream. That day I DID get it all out, then collapsed crying in a baby ball. Arms held me, cradled me, and I got to weep held, contained. There’s no better medicine than hugs. My being hurt—body, mind, soul—or days after, sore and raw. But it’d worked. I’d finally faced that darkness and moved it out of my body. That was the last time I had a panic attack.

As the years have passed, I’ve learned to dance with life in new ways. It’s when I try to control the chaos that I get stressed and anxious. That’s when my breath sticks in my throat. I’ve had to practice breathing! Big soft belly breaths, whispering to my body that she’s safe and I love her.

I’ve begun looking at chaos differently. It’s not inherently “bad”—something that must be controlled with my stress spiral. Chaos is actually the creative principle, it holds tremendous possibility! When I ditch control and instead turn to the chaos with openness, wonder, and curiosity, suddenly magic has an opening. This mindset makeover has created the opportunity for me to flow with life instead of fight it.

My life has been pretty wild, weird, and epic. I’ve survived a lot! And when things feel overwhelming now, I trust: I’m going to survive this too. And even if I don’t, well I tried to kill myself twice. I’m already living on borrowed time. If this thing is the end, that’s cool too. I let go.

No matter what happens, I can trust that this is perfect. Not human perfect. Life is way too messy to be human perfect. It’s divine perfect. The kind of perfect that’s better than what my limited little mind can conceive of. The kind of perfect that turns my human mess into miracles. And when I see it that way, I realize every moment (no matter how seemingly stressful it might be) is insanely sacred, and I’m blessed AF to be here telling you this story. Thank you for receiving it!