She sat across from me. Nervous. Hands shaking.
"Two years of therapy," she whispered, "and I still can't leave the house without a panic attack."
That day, we did something different. We didn't talk about her fear. We found the exact place where her body was holding her. A cold, heavy stone beneath her ribs.
Ninety minutes later, something was different.
Two months later she sent me a selfie. From a busy, colourful marketplace. No more panic. Just freedom. Just life.