The morning my espresso machine broke, I had a full panic attack before 7:30 a.m. I wasn’t new to stress—I own a coffee shop in downtown Sioux Falls, after all—but something about that day hit differently. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My lungs tightened like they’d forgotten how to work. And when my employee asked if I was okay, I didn’t know how to lie.
That moment forced me to admit I’d been spiraling for months.
It hadn’t always been this way. I opened the café during the pandemic, poured everything into it, and for a while, it felt like magic. The community rallied. People tipped well. I ran on adrenaline and oat milk.
But then things slowed down. Inflation hit. I lost two baristas in the same week. I stopped sleeping. Customers noticed. And I hated that they noticed.
I kept thinking, “If I take a day off, the whole thing will collapse.”
Eventually, I started getting sick. My immune system waved the white flag. I got stomach pain, headaches, chest tightness. I spent hours googling symptoms. At night, I’d lie on the floor of my living room, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me.
What was wrong was that I needed help. Not a podcast, not a planner. I needed to talk to someone who could help me untangle the ball of stress, anxiety, and shame that had become my constant companion.
A friend told me about Medicaid therapists in Sioux Falls. I hadn’t realized I qualified. I assumed therapy was a luxury—something for people with extra time and money. But I looked it up and found that there were licensed professionals in town who took Medicaid and were accepting new clients. The process was surprisingly smooth. No long hold times. No gatekeeping. I booked my first session the following week.
Walking into that office, I was sweaty, skeptical, and five minutes early because I didn’t know where to park. I spent most of that first session apologizing for rambling. But my therapist just nodded and asked the right questions. She didn’t act shocked when I talked about panic attacks or burnout or how I sometimes fantasized about moving to a town where no one knew I used to be a business owner.
In week three, I told her I was afraid of being seen as weak. She said something that stuck with me: “You’re not weak. You’re overwhelmed, unsupported, and running on fumes. That’s not the same.”
We met weekly. I chose mornings because afternoons felt too risky. I didn’t want to chicken out. Over time, the sessions helped me peel back the layers—not all at once, but enough to breathe again. She gave me tools for the panic, language for the grief, and grace for the mistakes I made trying to stay afloat.
Looking back, I wish I’d known earlier that Sioux Falls mental health providers who accept Medicaid even existed. The care was real. The difference was real. And I didn’t have to explain away my budget or justify why I waited so long. I only had to show up.
Now I keep a note taped to the inside of my register: “You’re allowed to rest.”
I read it every day.
I didn’t expect to cry about croissants.
But one Thursday morning, mid-rush, I glanced at the pastry rack and realized I’d brought back almond croissants. The ones I stopped ordering last winter, back when everything felt like a battle. Customers had asked for them, even offered to pay extra, and I’d waved them off like they didn’t matter.
But here they were again. And they looked good.
That was the moment I knew I was coming back to myself. Not fixed, not perfect. But present.
I wasn’t skipping sessions anymore. I was talking about my mom, about the pressure of owning a business and not having a degree, about the way the silence in my apartment used to rattle me at night. My therapist gave me room to be mad, then helped me unpack it. She asked me once, “What would happen if you forgave yourself for burning out?” and I didn’t know what to say.
I thought I had to earn my peace. Turns out, it was waiting for me at every Tuesday appointment.
We started with grounding techniques. Simple ones, like the five senses exercise—naming things I could see, hear, feel, smell, and taste during an episode. When I froze during inventory, I would grip the pen, press my thumb to my necklace, and bring myself back.
Later, we tackled the bigger stuff. We made a plan for my sleep, my diet, my loneliness. Not all at once. She knew when to nudge, and when to pause. She even helped me set boundaries with my cousin, who thought owning a business meant I could always spot him fifty bucks. I told him no last week. First time in years.
I still feel the weight some mornings. But it’s no longer crushing. It’s something I carry, not something that drags me under.
I’ve also started encouraging my staff to use their mental health days. We don’t call them “sick days” anymore. They’re just called what they are. And sometimes I tell them where I go. I don’t name the place, but I say, “It helps. You deserve help too.”
One of my baristas asked me last week if I was seeing someone “for the panic stuff.” I nodded, and he said, “I think I might too. That’s cool, right?”
I almost cried again. Not because I was sad, but because someone else had seen the difference in me. And maybe they wanted it for themselves.
That’s the legacy I want more than a five-star Yelp review.
I still tape things to the back of the receipt drawer. This morning’s note: “Handled the machine breaking without spiraling.”
I think that counts.
