The Glass Shark

Sylvia almost tossed it into the donation box.

The little glass shark ornament had been gathering dust on her windowsill for years, a relic from a relationship that ended long ago. But whenever her fingers closed around it, something in her chest tightened.

She remembered the summer she first held it, the weeks when her body ached with an illness no doctor could name, when anxiety turned every breath into a question. Back then, her therapist had told her, “Choose an object. Hold it. Feel every surface. Write what you notice. When your mind drifts, bring it back to that weight in your hand.”

Sylvia had chosen the shark. It had many details, angles and shape.

Night after night, she’d traced the smooth curve of its belly, the knife-like edges of its fins. She knew its shape better than she knew her own reflection. When panic made the walls tilt and the room dissolve into blur-static, the shark anchored her. It reminded her the world had edges. That she did, too. A creature of resilience.

A panic attack like that often feels like being trapped inside your own body while everything spins out of control.

You can’t form full sentences. Your stomach churns as if fear is clawing you from the inside out. That’s the best way to describe it. Nausea in your throat is worse than any kind in the pit. You pull your knees to your chest because curling in feels like the only way to make yourself small enough to survive it. The fetal position isn’t a choice it’s instinct, a way of holding yourself together when your mind is trying to break apart.

Your heartbeat is too loud, too fast, but you don’t feel that part. You only see it hammering on the machine when the doctor takes your vitals. The fear now takes over against your ribs like it wants out. Breathing feels shallow, the noise of the fan stops and your tongue swells by the haunting silence you are internally screaming in.

There’s a strange detachment, part of you watches from outside, whispering that none of this is real, while another part screams this is really happening.

Minutes feel like hours. The world narrows to the sound of your breath, the ache in your curled spine, and the desperate wish for it to stop.

Sylvia would remember the techniques her therapist suggested tailored for these moments but trying to reach for them mid-panic is like climbing up a ladder in the middle of a tornado.

“Reach for the shark”- She whispered.

One arm fiddles around trying to feel for it then finally it falls chipping a fin. “Ughhh” she screamed. Feeling so much. Feeling like it was her fault. That this shark was ‘injured’ though not real. Everything feels like that when panic takes over. You feel bad for everything.

Sylvia rubbed her thumbs on the chip crying. Picking up a chard of ceramic off the floor. And for a moment the sadness felt better than panic. It was a sad emotion, but it was an emotion. A real one.

Now, years later, Sylvia stood over the donation box, sorting through the trinkets and souvenirs she’d hoarded, a chipped mug, many chipped mugs, a jar of seashells, a collection of salt and pepper shakers, a drawerful of things that mattered but no longer served its purpose.

Her hand hovered over the box. The glass shark gleamed in the light.

Some gifts stayed, not because of who gave them, but because of what they gave back.

Sylvia set the shark on the windowsill. And decided, It would stay.