[STORY] You gave me back my husband. Thank you!

I never thought my late-night jogs were anything more than a stress-relief routine.

I’ve been trying to stay consistent with my mental health practices—running, journaling, meditation, drinking enough water.

But two weeks ago, one late-night jog on the Lekki bridge turned into something that still feels unreal.

It was around 10:30 p.m. The sky was heavy with clouds, and the salty breeze from the lagoon made the air feel almost therapeutic. I had my headphones on, blasting a mix of Afrobeats and lo-fi—perfect for keeping my mental wellness in check.

Out of nowhere, my chest got tight. My heartbeat raced like a faulty drum, and my vision blurred.

“Not again,” I muttered, slowing down.

It was a panic attack. I’d had them before, but this one felt different—sharp, loud, consuming. I crouched by the rail, gripping the cold metal, trying to breathe in counts of four, just like my therapist taught me.

“Hey! Are you okay?” a voice called out.

I looked up and saw a guy, maybe mid-30s, wearing office clothes with his tie loosened. He was sweating, but it wasn’t the Lagos heat—it was the kind of sweat that comes with exhaustion and fear.

Before I could reply, he clutched his chest and collapsed right there on the pavement.

Adrenaline shot through me. My panic attack instantly took a back seat.

“Bro! Stay with me!” I shouted, shaking him lightly. His lips trembled, and his eyes rolled back.

I dropped my phone, dialed emergency services with trembling hands, and shouted at a passing car, “Help! He’s not breathing properly!”

A woman in gym gear stopped too. “I know CPR,” she said quickly. She knelt beside him while I kept talking to emergency responders. I counted out loud for her as she did compressions, my own breathing slowly syncing with the rhythm.

When he gasped and coughed, I nearly cried from relief. He wasn’t gone. He was alive.

Minutes later, paramedics arrived, lifted him onto a stretcher, and told me, “If you hadn’t called so fast, this could’ve gone the other way. You may have saved his life.”

I sat down on the bridge, shaking, tears mixing with sweat. My panic attack—the thing I hated most about myself—was the very reason I had stopped long enough to notice him in distress.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Days later, the man’s family reached out to me. His wife’s voice cracked as she said, “You gave me back my husband. Thank you.”

I realized then that mental health struggles, as ugly as they feel, don’t always make us weak. Sometimes, they position us exactly where we need to be—right place, right time.

That night changed how I saw my panic attacks. I don’t glorify them, but I’ve learned to respect my body’s signals.

Now, I run not just for fitness or stress relief, but with gratitude—for life, for wellness, and for the strange ways the universe works.

As I tell this story, I can’t help but laugh a little. My panic attack almost broke me, but instead, it made me a hero for someone else.

Maybe healing isn’t always about avoiding the storm. Sometimes, it’s about learning how to breathe in the middle of it.