can't wait to unpack that with you later

in praise of ted lasso's panic attacks

I, personally, love the food poisoning excuse when I’m anxious or feel like I might have a panic attack around strangers. It’s an easy explanation for when you need some air, or you need some space in the bathroom. No one questions food poisoning. First of all, who hasn’t had a terrible case of food poisoning? Who hasn’t trusted a shady happy-hour-oyster-special or two in their day? Second, no one wants details when you have food poisoning. There aren’t any follow-up questions folks want answered beyond, oh no, what do you think it was? and are you feeling better? In other words: it’s a lie you don’t need to back up too much.

Plenty of people, however, will question a panic attack when it’s happening (don’t get me started on the number of times I’ve been told to “buck up,” as if I hadn’t already tried that). That’s the thing about invisible pain and sensation, particularly ones we don’t talk about often. Panic attacks are, more often than not, entirely invisible: numbness in your extremities, shortness of breath, swirling/intrusive thoughts, tight chest, and a deep feeling of impending doom.

Anxiety and panic attacks don’t lend themselves to TV or movies. It’s hard to articulate just how severe a panic attack can feel in the moment, and even harder to get someone to understand its severity after it has passed.

Ted Lasso knows the secrecy and shame surrounding panic attacks very well. We see that in the first season of the show, when he has a panic attack at a karaoke afterparty after a win. He worries he’s having a heart attack. Rebecca, his boss/friend/on-and-off flirtation follows him outside and consoles him.

I initially loved this scene, but I figured it was a one-off. There just isn’t a visual language for anxiety, not yet. We have a visual shorthand for many other mental disorders: depression can be portrayed on-screen by a disheveled or sad-looking person who is often in bed, gloomy and dark (even though that is not how depression manifests for many people). Mania can be communicated through fast talking, impulsive and/or dangerous behaviors, and all kinds of excess (although that, too, can be reductive). But anxiety and panic are quieter, tougher things to show visually beyond just heavy breathing and gripping one’s chest.

But lo and behold, the second season of Ted Lasso has leaned into the anxiety and panic attack subplot. Every episode so far has teased Ted’s inevitable foray into therapy with the team’s sports therapist, Dr. Sharon Fieldstone, a no-nonsense woman who sees past Ted’s folksy humorous deflections and counters with her own serious boundaries.

Plenty has already been written about the show, this season in particular (that the show is the antidote to toxic masculinity; that it is an amazing show, that it is just an OK show; that it is groundbreaking; that it is ordinary which makes it extraordinary). But I haven’t seen many delving into how successful Jason Sudeikis’s portrayal of panic attacks is. And I think it’s worth considering.

The first panic attack during the first season of the show is, in many ways, successful, particularly for viewers who likely haven’t experienced one themselves. Ted is forced to face the sudden onset, the blurring and inability to focus on the world around you, the fear that he is dying because he doesn’t know what he’s experiencing.

The second notable panic attack happens in the second season, when Ted runs off the pitch mid-game, blaming “food poisoning.” As I mentioned, no one questions this explanation minus asking him what dish he suspects was the culprit. Everyone, that is, except for Rebecca, who now knows Ted is prone to panic attacks. She’s a good friend—one who tries to find him and support him in real time. Yet she’s unable to. Ultimately, Dr. Fieldstone finds him in her office, waiting in the dark with tears streaming down his face. He knows he needs help and he can’t go on like this, and as a viewer my heart breaks to see just how resigned he has become.

May all of us anxious folks one day have a friend like Rebecca, who can see from a small gesture or change in our body language what is going on. Most of the time, it is not that easy to get someone to notice the beginning of a panic attack without saying it outright. And obviously, most of us do not have easy access to a psychologist’s office where we can sit and wait for free help on the spot.

The most realistic part of this scene is Ted’s own resignation to the fact that his panic attacks aren’t going away on their own, and that he’ll have to rely on others to help him get out of this vicious anxious cycle.

But what the show gets right on the whole, and what moves me the most as someone with panic disorder myself, is that almost no one around Ted realizes that he is anxious at all. Ted is a shining example of the smiley, cheerful, jovial, seemingly happy person who is hurting on the inside and unable to to admit how worried he truly is about everything—his team, his fellow coaches, his family back in the states, his ability to be a good father from afar. 

What I like most about Sudeikis’ portrayal of Lasso’s profound panic attacks is not even his physical acting in those scenes, but in the scenes surrounding the attacks. His high-energy, joyful approach to coaching is contrasted by his colleague Coach Beard’s cool, reserved manner, amplifying Lasso’s need to perform positivity even more (viewers recently saw this in a bizarre and surreal bottle episode exploring Coach Beard as a depressive foil to Lasso, shedding some light on how they balance each other out). We see Lasso minimize stressful phone calls from his family back home, downplay his worries about a bad coaching call during a game, and go home with Rebecca’s friend late one night in an effort to forget his troubles. It’s avoidant behavior, which makes panic attacks worse, but it’s also relatable to anyone unable or unwilling to face just how bad their anxiety has become.

Lasso uses enlightened social justice language and contemporary mental health discussions—for example, off-handed quips like “can’t wait to unpack that with you later”—to make everyone around him believe he is the good guy because, deep down, I’m not sure he believes that about himself. Watching Ted, I know that in order for him to be just that mindful, observant, and keen on empathizing and believing in others means he is likely anxious about his relationship to the people around him.

All of these American “touchy-feely” qualities are in stark contrast to the inherently British stiff upper lip he encounters in London. What made for excellent humor in the first season turns into a stark realization in the second season as to just how heavy Ted’s anxiety has to be in order to counterbalance this incessantly witty, quippy front.

Yet this is also what makes him a great coach. He’s empathetic to the quiet struggles of his players: Jamie’s daddy issues, Sam’s desire to be a man who makes Nigeria proud, Roy’s initially uneasy transition from player to coach. This season we also learn Ted’s father died by suicide when Ted was just 16. He’s learned to give pep talks to others because—and this doesn’t feel like a stretch to assume—he likely had to give himself, and his family, many pep talks of his own. Still reeling from the loss of his father while half a world away from his own son, Ted’s determined to play a dad-like role for everyone around him. Perhaps this time he can make a difference and somehow feel better. But doing this also means Ted has had to brush his own very understandable fears and grief and sadness to the side. And that’s not a solid long-term solution.

I know I’ve done that more than I’d like to admit. And I teach, so I can say with confidence how easy it is to put the anxiety and fears of others before your own.

I can also say with confidence that it is never the the students of mine who look or appear sad that I have to worry about. The students who are doing the best and worst academically oftentimes have something else going on which influences their performance in the classroom. The greatest disservice I can do for my best students is assume that they can perform the “good student” without insecurity, fear, or shame nipping at their heals. 99% of the time, the students who are struggling won’t admit it to me if I ask, or they force a smile. I can’t fix that—it’s not my job and not in my training and I’m a big believer in utilizing available mental health resources—but just knowing that that does happen is, I hope, something that makes me more mindful about what I do.

There’s a bizarre and outdated myth, particularly in America, that those who appear to be happy all the time must be happy all the time. Surely no one can be that happy all the time, because no one is happy all the time. The anxious ones just know how to hide it.

Lasso eventually tells his coaching staff about his panic attacks, and each of the men admit to their own secrets they have kept from one another. They nod and accept Lasso without question. So I wish that for everyone who has panic disorder: good support, acceptance, and no need to blame the prawn cocktail.