05/26/2026
Mental Health Awareness Month is almost over, and I’ve gone back and forth about whether or not I wanted to tell my story — and how much of it I wanted to share. Even though it’s not something I like to think about or even admit, I think it’s extremely important for those who may be struggling with similar feelings to know that they are not alone.
*** Trigger warning: This is my experience with mental health struggles. It includes an eating disorder, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and an attempt. If you are actively struggling, please read with caution. ***
If our paths have only crossed recently, you might see me as a happy, glowing person who is in love with her job, purpose, and life. And that is very much true.
But some may remember a much different person.
There was a time, not very long ago, when I struggled to get out of bed. And I know that sounds cliché, but it’s not an exaggeration. The moment my eyes opened, I wished for the day to go by as quickly as possible so I could go back to sleep. Not because I was tired, but because every moment I spent awake felt like torture. I felt like a joke and a waste of space. Sleeping felt like pressing “pause” on all of it.
And it started when I was young.
I was always a good kid. I didn’t cause trouble, I had good grades, and if there was something I wasn’t naturally good at, I usually picked it up quickly. I loved making others proud — my parents, teachers, friends. I wanted to be the best at everything. Not because I wanted to be “better than” anyone else, but because if I was anything less, I felt like I wasn’t worth anything at all.
That mentality led me to develop anorexia in my middle school and high school years. I still remember what I was wearing the day I decided to stop eating. A classmate made a remark about my weight, but I didn’t cry.
I broke.
I didn’t just want to be pretty — I felt like I HAD to be. And in the early 2000s, the message everywhere was that the only way to be pretty was to be skinny. So, I stopped eating. And if I ate too much, I punished myself with self-harm. Because I had to be the best to be worthy of love, and I couldn’t be the best if I wasn’t skinny.
Pretty intense emotions for a child. And the really crazy part? I came from a good, loving home. I wasn’t abused or neglected in any way. I was just, sick. My parents always supported me and did the best they knew how. But when I was struggling, mental health was still taboo. It wasn’t talked about. It was shunned. If you were anything but “normal,” you were considered crazy. And while my parents loved me very much, they didn’t have the tools to understand what was happening to me because those tools simply didn’t exist.
And if they did, it was considered shameful.
Therapy was seen as something for the clinically insane or victims of abuse — not for a straight-A student who excelled at nearly everything.
Fast forward into adulthood, and I quickly went from the “perfect student” to what felt like a complete screw-up. I couldn’t keep a job because I couldn’t get my anxiety under control, which led to deeper feelings of inadequacy. Add in a crumbling marriage, and I had become the very thing I feared most: a failure.
Showers became overwhelming, and my hair was often matted. Basic household chores were too much. I didn’t want to be awake anymore. I felt no hope of ever getting better, and every single day felt like hell. My panic attacks went from weekly to several times a day, and eventually I couldn’t do it anymore. I felt like my very existence was a burden to everyone around me, and I could no longer convince myself there was any point of carrying on.
In March of 2016, I found myself in the psych ward at St. Rita’s Hospital after a su***de attempt.
To be honest, I try not to think about it. Although I shouldn’t, I feel shame that it got that far. That my demons convinced me I was never enough and never would be.
Today, I know that voice held no truth. But 10 years ago, I was terrified that it did.
What I DIDN’T know was that depression, anxiety, bipolar disorders, addictions, and even schizophrenia run in my family history. I also didn’t know that on the day I decided I wanted to end my life, I was roughly two weeks pregnant with my son.
The rush of new pregnancy hormones, my family history, and my already fragile mental state were all working against me — and NONE of it was my fault.
What I want others to take from my story is this:
Suicidal thoughts don’t come out of nowhere. They often start small — as an offhand comment to yourself, maybe even as a joke. Then they come more frequently. And without realizing it, they slowly become a very real and terrifying possibility.
Talk about your feelings. Explore every avenue of help if you need it, and know there is absolutely no shame in having those feelings. And if one thing doesn’t work, try another. Never stop fighting for a better version of yourself, because you are worth living. You are worthy of love. And you have more purpose than you can possibly comprehend.
My feelings were intensified by factors I wasn't aware of. While that didn't make my feelings less valid, having the proper knowledge, education, and coping skills saved my life. I’ve done A LOT of work on myself between March of 2016 and now, and it wasn’t a linear process. But damn it, I got here.
There was a time, not very long ago, when I struggled to get out of bed.
And today I’m a happy, glowing person who is in love with her job, purpose, and life.
Stay. 🌱
Su***de Hotline: Dial 988
My cell phone: (567)-371-9558
