The Day Ariana Grande’s ‘breathin’ Got Me Through a Panic Attack
breathin’ through one of the most emotionally exhausting and mentally draining nights of my life, so far
Ariana Grande’s ‘Sweetener’ came out August of 2018 a little more than a year after the Manchester attack. In an interview with Jimmy Fallon, she explains the album is about, “bringing light to a situation or to someone’s life or somebody else who brings light to your life or, sweetening the situation.” The album marked a new era for Ariana one filled with light, color, and vulnerability.
When I first heard Sweetener, ‘breathin’ was a song I immediately had on repeat. In a separate interview with Jimmy Fallon, she confirms the song is about, “anxiety and feeling like you can’t get a full breath.” Anxiety for Ariana is nothing new, in Vogue, she mentions how she’s always had anxiety but after Manchester worsened.
The pre-chorus of ‘breathin’ captures the blood pumping, dizzying, uprooted feeling of an anxiety attack.
Feel my blood runnin’, swear the sky’s fallin’
How do I know if this shit’s fabricated
Time goes by and I can’t control my mind
Don’t know what else to try, but you tell me every time
Her voice swells and is cut short. After a beat, the chorus comes in.
Just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’
And oh, I gotta keep, keep on breathin’
The chorus grounds the moment — pause, take a moment, breathe.
The lyrics are a guide walking you through an anxiety attack. The production is a soft caress like someone holding your face by their fingertips, then suddenly you’re being carried through something disorienting yet grounding.
I’ve experienced two panic attacks prior to this one. Before listening to ‘breathin’ I wasn’t aware that what I had experienced was a panic attack. I would joke and laugh at how my body reacted. Haha, I struggled to breathe. Haha, I cried. I don’t even know why but I cried so hard. Haha, I ran into a bathroom stall to be in small, underwhelming, and manageable space so I could catch my breath. Ha.
Music is Ariana’s way of processing the highs and lows of her life and this vulnerability allows listeners to connect to her and her music. ‘breathin’ helped get me through one of the most emotionally exhausting and mentally draining nights of my life.
Before crossing the four-lane road to get to my neighborhood I saw a taxi. My feet rooted into the asphalt. Something told me to wait to see the passenger step out. My mind jumped to my neighbor, perhaps she was doing some late night grocery shopping. The taxi stopped at the gate and I saw a long, tall figure step out. It was late November and all they wore was a t-shirt.
I swallowed a gasp afraid they’d look back and see me standing there with my backpack slung over my shoulder. My phone at 1% slipped through my fingers, saved only by my headphone wires.
It was my tio. The one we had kicked out of the house after learning he was using his old cancer diagnosis to disguise his substance abuse problem. The one who had been calling my dad from jail for roughly 5 days. The one who had said he would never come back to the house for anything. Someone had paid his bail and he was back, for what I wasn’t sure and I wasn’t going to stick around to find out.
Once he disappeared through the bushes separating my neighborhood from the road I finally exhaled.
I knew I needed to call my mom to warn her that the person at the door wasn’t me, but the moment I hit call my phone died. My feet finally uprooted and I ran to my car. I sat in the driver’s seat catching my breath. I wanted to succumb to the tears fighting to fall, but calling my family was the priority so I drove to Best Buy.
At Best Buy I knew I could go to the Apple iPhone table and use one of the cables to charge my phone. I had conveniently left mine at work.
As I was standing waiting for my phone to light up I watched as employees circled the table asking if I had any questions. I watched as customers walked up to the latest model and played with the screen. When my phone lit up, I already had multiple missed calls from my mom that I immediately returned.
In a whisper, she said, “alo. Cathy mira no vengas a la casa. Está tu tio.”
“I know mami. I saw him. Estoy en Best Buy cargando mi teléfon. Estás bien?”
“Si lo estoy viendo en las cámaras de seguridad. Solo toca la puerta.”
We fell silent and as if on cue my tio began knocking. The security cameras covered the four angles of the house and the screen streaming every moment was in my parent’s room on the second floor in the back part of the house.
Each knock felt like he was closer to getting inside. Louder and louder each knock echoed in my stomach. Even though I was feeling sick anger overwhelmed me.
“Who paid his bail mami?”
“No se pero tu papá me marcó diciendome que lavara las chamarras de tu tio que el los iba venir a recojer. Aquí las tengo ya secando.”
Shock, disbelief, anger.
“Are you seriously washing his fucking clothes? But seriously mami, who paid his fucking bail? Like, who? Who? WHO! Who would pay his fucking bail? Like really? And! don’t they get released to them? So why is he here now? Qué busca? Qué quiere?”
At this point, anyone near me turned to look at me. I was being loud. I was being obnoxious. And I didn’t care. I felt I had every right to be publicly emotional. It’s not like I was projecting it towards an innocent employee, it was contained.
Then my mom told me that she was getting a call from my sister.
“Ya te marco,” then she hung up.
I set the phone down and let my mind wander.
He’s been in jail for maybe a week so yeah, his ego big bruised for sure, but I don’t think he’s pissed. If anything I’m pissed. Who does he think he is showing up after that fucked up shit? Convincing us that his cancer came back. Having us believe he was gonna fucking die any fucking day, that he was seeing the fucking doctor when in REALITY he was out here picking up and getting high in our fucking bathroom. And you have the fucking nerve! to make a reappearance?
I’m pissed. That shit is just so disrespectful, but at least he ain’t violent. At least it’s just his ego that’s hurt. Imagine 5 days locked away and the one person you rely on for everything is ignoring your calls. Shit. That’s the only positive thing to come out this shit at least he won’t kill us over this…
I get out of my head and I realize I wasn’t in my head. I was talking aloud to myself. As I look, finally seeing, I notice the people around me are just shapes and suddenly my anger turns into fear. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by the possibility of an outcome that would involve the death of my dad.
I decide I want to leave but can’t, because my phone is at too low a charge. Then the disembodied voices of people talking about iPhones are so detached from my reality I spiral.
How are these people shopping for a phone at this hour at this time during my current crisis? How can things be so normal?
I begin to tear up. I catch them with my fingers refusing to succumb to the feeling. I circle around trying to catch my breath, but I can’t so I duck, hide under the table, and hug my knees.
I don’t care that people can see me. I don’t care that they stare then quickly look away. I just know that under the table I feel a bit better — a bit safer.
My phone rings and my hand snakes from under the table to grab it. It’s my sister.
“I don’t think Papi should go home,” she says, “I have a bad feeling.”
“Don’t say that sister.”
“I’m saying it though cause it’s how I feel. I don’t think it’s safe for Papi to go home. I think we should call a Crisis Unit. It’ll be better. If we don’t it’s just gonna be the same thing. He’s gonna end up in the house, he’s gonna keep doing what he’s doing — and no, we have to do something. At this point, what else is there, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Ok sister,” she says, “I’ll talk to you later. Love you. I’ll send you the number to the crisis unit— por si acaso.”
She hangs up and I tuck my phone under my legs.
He’s not gonna want to go to no damn crisis center. That’s just gonna escalate shit. He’s gonna deny his problem. He’s gonna ask for proof. He’s gonna bring up his cancer. He’s gonna cry.
Or maybe he won’t.
Maybe he’ll just be angry.
Maybe he’ll be so angry he starts to fight papi.
Maybe they’ll be in the dining room, and then papi will get pushed to the kitchen. In the kitchen, tio will grab a knife from the set and just…and I’ll be screaming and yelling. Then he’ll come after me, and I’ll run. I’ll run into the neighborhood, screaming, yelling, begging for help. Then mami will finally come down from upstairs and…I can’t breathe.
I’m hyperventilating. I huff and puff and huff and puff, quick short breaths. I’m dizzy. As hard as I try I can’t take one full breath. Not only that but the tears are ugly. They’re loud and crash into my cheeks. I want it to stop. I just want all of it, everything to just stop.
Being under the table is hot and suffocating. So, I crawl out from underneath and face away from the table, place my hands on its edges and stretch hoping it’ll help. Hoping that having my face reaching towards the ceiling will fill my lungs with air. Instead, I choke on tears. I’m coughing. I’m crying. I feel like I might die.
Customers around me are just eyes focused solely on me. They watch me lose everything, everything I was trying so hard to contain. To avoid their eyes I start walking deeper into the Apple configuration. Past the Macbooks, past the desktops, towards the back where I stop to speak to an employee.
I choke on every other word, tears streaming down my face, “do you have like a break room I can sit in or something?” They look like a high schooler, and are polite enough to let me finish my question before turning around and waving to someone else, someone older in a bright yellow shirt and saying, “yo she’s crying.”
I know that if I could just breathe I’d be okay, but I can’t. The image of a bloodied father on the kitchen floor and me running for dear life is too real to ignore. My body is already running, but I have nowhere to run to.
The man in yellow is in front of me. He’s incoherent. Nothing he says reaches me. I walk away, and I’m mouthing, just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’.
With zero destination in mind just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’
I walk past strangers who I know can hear my gasps for breath just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’
My right arm tingles. I try to open my hand up. I try to move a finger, but it hurts just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’
I walk past security cameras on display showing me my soaked eyelashes, my swollen lips, and shiny forehead just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’
I walk into the TV room towards the home audio room and sit on an ottoman situated in the middle of the room just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’
I put my head between my knees and I sit like that just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’.
A blue shirt calls in, “is everything ok in here?” I look towards him snot-nosed and breathy.
“Yeah,” I say.
Minutes pass and I notice the air is soothingly still, even though it’s filled with surround sound equipment.
Minutes pass and I notice I’m no longer swallowing shallow breaths. I notice the tears fall, but quietly. The chorus keeps playing just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’.
I inhale. just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’ I exhale.
I inhale. just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’ I exhale.
I inhale. just keep breathin’ and breathin’ and breathin’ I exhale.
Then I remember my phone. I check and see 8 missed calls from Mami. 12 missed calls from Sister.
I call my sister.
We’re both quiet.
I say, my chest tightening, “I had a panic attack.”
I can feel the weight of what I just dropped. I can hear it in my sister’s sigh. It’s not a here’s another thing I have to deal with sigh. But an empathetic sigh, an I understand completely sigh.
“I’m sorry sister.”
“It’s okay,” I say, “so what’s happening? What’d I miss.”
Ariana’s vulnerability, her willingness to be open about certain aspects of her life, gave her the strength to write, sing, and share a song that gives an honest depiction of her experience with anxiety in ‘breathin’.
‘breathin’, slipped into my mind that night because her experience is buried in the song. It came to me because my mind and my body noticed that connection and knew it would help me get through my panic attack. And it did. It helped me calm myself down and catch my breath. It got me back to a functioning level. It also gave me the strength to reach out and call a friend who sat with me and let me cry.
The whole experience was a lesson in vulnerability. Pretending to be unbothered, repressing and suppressing every thought and feeling only builds pressure. Eventually all that stress, fear, and uncertainty has to be released. It has to be explored. It has to be processed and felt.
That night helped me realize how powerful music is it also helped me realize I shouldn’t be afraid to give myself permission to feel.
I know that I say I had a panic attack and the song is about anxiety. They have different names because they are different things. I didn’t want to mislabel my experience for the sake of continuity. I also didn’t want to perpetuate misinformation over the two things. Reading this article Anxiety Attacks vs. Panic Attacks certainly helped me gain a greater understanding of their differences and helped me self-diagnosis my panic attack (I know I should get professional help def). They have different names because they are different things.
Thanks Ari for this song and helping me get through this moment boo. See you Saturday :* (because I’m going to her concert) (Nosebleed gang for life).
