Throughout middle and high school, I went on annual retreats to a camp that offered three activities: a ropes course, horseback riding, and whitewater rafting. Traditionally, sixth graders did both a low and high ropes course as an exercise in trust, seventh graders would ride horses, and everyone older would go whitewater rafting.

I continually had bad luck with these experiences. The ropes course made me realize I was terrified of heights (or, as many people are quick to correct themselves, terrified of falling). When we went horseback riding, my horse got distracted and I fell off (they told me if I hadn’t fallen so well I would have ended up with at least a broken arm). But whitewater rafting was fine.

I went rafting again in high school, and nothing happened except for my friend losing a flip flop. We even got to get out of the rafts in a calm spot and float through the water. It was great.

The next year was not so great. To set the scene: the camp we went to was using the rapids that were used in the Olympics. Also, it had been raining for the past few days. We were supposed to go out on the water a little after noon, but they had to drain it because otherwise it was too high (and dangerous) for us to be able to go. It ended up being a couple of hours before we even got on the bus in order to get to the starting point.

I’m not going to draw the story out too much, so I’ll just say that it was terrifying. The current was much faster, and several people’s rafts flipped. We finally got to the calm area, and they told us we could get out if we wanted. Since that had been the best part the year before, and since everyone else was getting out, I did too. That was a mistake.

Since the water levels were still high, the current was pretty fast. Despite my life vest, I was getting dragged under the water, waves crashing over my head even when I came up for air. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. Since I was clearly panicking, another raft pulled me back in. I was having a panic attack, hyperventilating and crying, because I almost died. For once my panic was rational—and yet, nobody really understood it.

They asked if I wanted to switch back rafts, but there was no way that I was getting back in the water after I had almost drowned. My heart was still racing. Not even the guides shaming me to get back in the water could get me to go back.

When we got back on the bus, multiple people asked me about what had happened, and none of them seemed to really understand my panic. They understood being afraid, but getting so panicked to the point where I couldn’t breathe baffled them.

We later found out that two people had died that day; we actually rafted past a failed rescue mission. My fears were justified, and I understand why I had a panic attack (a lot of the time they’re totally irrational, which is even more frustrating).

However, even if my panic that day had been completely irrational, that gives nobody the right to judge me. I have anxiety and it can be totally irrational, and you may have no idea what I’m so upset about, but that doesn’t give you the right to tell me that my fear isn’t valid. I know my panic is often irrational, believe me. It’s frustrating enough without someone mentioning it to me. You’re not going to cure my anxiety by telling me that it doesn’t make sense. I know that nothing bad is going to happen when I read from a paper in front of a room of my friends, but my throat and lungs still constrict, and my hands still shake.

My advice is: if you have anxiety, know that you’re not alone. It can be frustrating feeling like your panic is irrational and not being able to do anything about it. It can feel like the water’s closing in above your head. If you don’t have anxiety: be understanding. Don’t judge someone who’s having a panic attack; offer your support. And whether you have anxiety or not: don’t be afraid to talk about it. Together, we can dismantle the stigma around anxiety.