When I Couldn’t Keep Pretending Anymore
I used to think I had to have it all together. Work, family, groceries, the never-ending list of things that needed doing. From the outside, I looked fine. Smiling at the neighbors. Volunteering at school events. Laughing too loudly at work meetings. But when the noise quieted, and it was just me alone at the sink or staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, I felt like I was unraveling.
I remember one Tuesday morning clearly. I was folding laundry on the couch before heading to my shift at the pharmacy when my chest tightened so hard it knocked the breath out of me. My hands shook. I thought maybe I was having a heart attack. But it wasn’t my heart, not physically. It was panic. Crushing panic, the kind that makes you question your reality. And that wasn’t the first time. I’d been pushing these feelings down for months. I didn’t want to admit something might be wrong. But after that morning, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I searched online for help, but every time I found someone promising, I’d call and hear the same thing: “We’re not accepting new clients,” or “We don’t take Medicaid.” That word—Medicaid—felt like a door slamming shut. I was working full-time and still barely scraping by, and now it seemed like even getting help was reserved for people who could afford more. I needed therapists that accept Medicaid in Sioux Falls, and I needed them soon.
I sat on my porch that night, wrapped in a hoodie, hoping the cold air would quiet my racing thoughts. The idea of calling one more office made my stomach turn. I started to believe maybe this was it—maybe I was stuck feeling this way.
But then, a friend messaged me. She had gone through something similar after her divorce. She told me about a local counseling service—one with actual openings and staff who accepted Medicaid without hesitation. “They changed everything for me,” she said. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I clicked the link she sent anyway.
I found the site and saw the words clearly: Medicaid mental health counselors in Sioux Falls. Not buried in fine print, not hidden on page seven. Right there. They offered real support. Not five-minute check-ins or quick fixes—but time, space, and people who actually wanted to help.
When I called, someone picked up. Not a robot, not a voicemail, but a human being who spoke gently and didn’t make me explain my insurance three times. “We can set you up with an intake this week,” she said. I nearly cried.
The intake was over video, which I didn’t love at first, but it turned out to be the perfect low-pressure start. I didn’t have to sit in an unfamiliar waiting room or watch strangers watch me. The therapist on the other end didn’t rush. She asked me about my days, my stress, the panic attacks. She didn’t jump to conclusions. She asked if I wanted to try meeting in person after that. And I did.
The first in-person session felt like an exhale I hadn’t taken in years.
The chairs were soft. There was no clipboard shoved in my face. She remembered what I’d told her online. She’d taken notes. She cared.
We talked about control—how I needed to feel like I was in control because I never had been as a kid. About how I’d been avoiding emotion by drowning in to-do lists. About how my panic wasn’t a weakness but a warning sign my body was waving, asking me to slow down.
It’s been seven weeks now. I go every Wednesday before work. It’s the only 50 minutes I don’t feel like I’m performing for the world. I’m learning how to tell the truth about how I feel. How to recognize the signs before they overwhelm me. I’m not “fixed,” but I’m not unraveling anymore either.
That day on the couch scared me. But it also saved me. It forced me to stop pretending and reach for something real.
I’m still folding laundry, still cooking dinner and showing up to work. But now, when the house is quiet and the panic tries to creep in, I have tools. I have someone to talk to. And I have a sliver of hope I didn’t think I’d find.
