Every year, World Mental Health Day serves as a reminder that mental health is not a niche topic—it is the foundation of our human experience. It affects how we think, feel, and act. It shapes how we handle stress, how we relate to others, and how we make choices. Yet, for far too long, mental health has been stigmatized, misunderstood, and brushed aside as something people should simply “get over.” But for many of us who have lived through its shadows, we know it’s not that simple.
I’ve battled depression for years. It’s a quiet war—one that rarely announces itself loudly, but instead creeps into your everyday life, often when you least expect it. There are days I wake up and feel like myself—productive, capable, even joyful. And then there are days when everything feels heavier than it should. Simple tasks feel monumental. A smile feels like a performance. But despite these challenges, I’ve learned to manage, to recognize the signs, and to take steps before the darkness deepens. I can control myself most of the time—and that small victory is something I’ve learned to be proud of.
Depression doesn’t always look like sadness. It often disguises itself as exhaustion, irritability, or apathy. It’s waking up tired no matter how much sleep you get. It’s feeling detached in a room full of people you love. It’s knowing there’s light somewhere, but not knowing how to reach it. For years, I tried to understand why I felt this way. I had love in my life, my children, my family, and meaningful projects. On paper, I had reasons to be happy. But depression doesn’t discriminate—it doesn’t care how strong, successful, or loved you are. It can seep into anyone’s life.
One of the hardest things I’ve faced is losing friends to suicide. There’s no pain quite like it—no manual that tells you how to process that kind of grief. You’re left with questions that will never be answered. What if I had called more often? What if I had noticed the signs? What if they had reached out one more time? Those questions circle endlessly, carving deep wells of guilt and sadness. I’ve lost several people I deeply cared about—people who smiled often, who made others laugh, who seemed strong. It’s haunting how often the ones who bring light to others are the ones fighting the darkest battles within.
Recently, I learned about a 17-year-old boy who jumped to his death. It wasn’t his first attempt—he had tried before, but this time, he didn’t make it out alive. I didn’t know him personally, but the news struck a chord deep within me. Seventeen. Barely an adult. A life that hadn’t even begun to unfold. When I heard what happened, I sat in silence for a long time, tears welling up without warning. I couldn’t stop thinking about him—about his parents, his friends, and how alone he must have felt in those final moments.
What shattered me even more was the realization that my own kids are around that age. My daughter Lani, my son, and their friends—they’re at a stage in life where emotions run high and the world can feel overwhelming. As a parent, that fear hits differently. You start noticing things more—when they’re quiet, when they retreat to their rooms, when they seem distracted. You wonder, Are they okay? Are they really okay? The thought that a young person could feel so hopeless, so unseen, that they believe death is the only way out—it’s unbearable. And when I picture that 17-year-old’s parents, I imagine myself in their shoes, and my heart breaks all over again.
In the aftermath, Lani became more aware of mental health than ever before. She started checking in on her friends more often, sending small messages just to remind them they mattered. I think losing Dar changed her, the way my own losses changed me. It’s heartbreaking that sometimes the only way we truly understand the importance of mental health is through tragedy.
As a mother, I now live with an almost constant undercurrent of worry for my children’s emotional well-being. We talk about physical health so freely—eating well, exercising, getting enough sleep—but mental health still comes with hesitation. I want my kids to know that it’s okay to not be okay. That asking for help is not a sign of weakness. That emotions, even the painful ones, are not something to be ashamed of. I’ve made it a point to be open with them about my own struggles with depression—not to burden them, but to normalize it. To show them that vulnerability is strength, and that healing doesn’t happen overnight.
When I was younger, no one talked about mental health. The phrase “depression” was often met with silence or disbelief. People would say, “You’ll be fine,” or “Others have it worse.” But mental illness is not a competition of suffering—it’s a reality that demands compassion. I wish more people understood that mental health isn’t about being happy all the time; it’s about finding balance, resilience, and coping mechanisms that work for you. For me, that means taking time for self-reflection, staying active, surrounding myself with supportive people, and allowing myself to rest without guilt when I need to.
There are still days when I feel like I’m standing on shaky ground. But I’ve learned to recognize that these moments are temporary. I remind myself of the things that anchor me—my faith, my children, my purpose. When the thoughts get dark, I breathe through them, and I remember that I’ve survived every bad day I’ve ever had so far. That reminder alone has power.
What makes mental health so complex is its invisibility. You can’t always see when someone is struggling. People can look fine on the outside and be crumbling inside. That’s why empathy matters. Kindness matters. A simple “How are you, really?” can save a life. We live in a world that glorifies perfection—perfect bodies, perfect lives, perfect families—but perfection is an illusion. What we need more of is authenticity. We need to create spaces where people can speak freely without fear of judgment or shame.
I often think about the people I’ve lost and wonder if they knew how loved they were. I hope they did. And I hope that in sharing stories like mine, others realize that they are not alone. Depression can make you feel isolated, but you are never truly alone in your pain. There are people who care deeply—even if you haven’t met them yet.
Mental health awareness isn’t just about recognizing the signs of illness; it’s about building a culture of openness and compassion. It’s about teaching our children emotional literacy—helping them name their feelings, process their pain, and reach out for help without fear. It’s about dismantling the stigma that still keeps so many silent.
If there’s one thing my journey has taught me, it’s that healing is not linear. There are setbacks and relapses, but there are also breakthroughs and moments of peace. There’s joy in small victories—getting out of bed on a hard day, showing up for someone else, finding laughter again after a long time. These moments remind us that even in the darkness, light still exists.
So on this World Mental Health Day, I want to say this: if you’re struggling, please hold on. Your story isn’t over. You are not defined by your lowest moments. You are worthy of love, healing, and understanding. And if you know someone who’s struggling, don’t assume they’re okay just because they smile. Check in. Listen without trying to fix. Sometimes, just being there is enough.
To those we’ve lost—Dar, the 17-year-old boy, my dear friends, and countless others—your absence is felt deeply. Your lives remind us why this conversation matters. Every story, every voice, every act of kindness can make a difference. We must continue to speak, to listen, and to fight the silence that mental illness thrives in.
For me, the battle with depression continues—but so does my commitment to live. To love. To raise my children with empathy. To remind them, and myself, that even in moments of despair, there is always hope. Because hope, fragile as it may seem, is the thread that keeps us connected to life.
Let’s make this day more than just awareness. Let it be a call to action—to reach out, to educate, to support, and to remember that mental health is everyone’s responsibility. We owe it to those we’ve lost, to those still fighting, and to the generations to come.
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