Personal Stories

As I read about other people’s stories of mental illness and recovery, I found myself frustrated by the experiences I could not relate to — the stories where people spoke of being fully healed.

Words on a piece of paper didn’t define my mental health journey. They simply gave it a name and helped me process my struggles.

The pain of watching my child suffer over the last two years has given me purpose and the will to keep advocating for families however I can.

When I am in my dark place, I can get settled here. It tells me everything I need to hear to make me believe I belong in this place.

My story, like many mental health journeys, has had its ups and downs.

I am in constant recovery, and this is only the beginning.

Sometimes, we catch ourselves asking how we can be in the position to help others work through things while facing our own struggles.

I’m not the perfect caregiver. But by throwing myself into this lifelong learning process, I’m much better able to help her when she needs it.

I recalled how my mother had struggled find the right help and support — the stress in her voice, the constant phone calls detailing terrible incidents that took place at the height of my brother’s symptoms.

For years, I carried the fear that bars us from living openly and freely, constantly worried and dreaming of being exposed, judged.