My heart was beating in my chest, I could feel my legs shaking below me. Sweat was beginning to run down my face, but I hardly noticed. All I could focus on were the thoughts that were racing through my head. Suddenly, the person in front of me moved out of the way, and I stepped forward. Trembling, I looked up to see a man staring at me. I gulped, then recited the order I had been rehearsing for the last 5 minutes. The Mcdonald’s employee lazily wrote down my order, took my money and handed me a receipt. I stepped out of the line and made my way to a booth, relief pouring over me. It sounds ridiculous-how could someone struggle with something as simple as placing an order at Mcdonald’s? But that was just one of the many scenarios where my anxiety took control of me. I have been shy ever since I was a preschooler. During any kinds of performances or skits, I would often raise my shirt up to hide my face or else duck behind a taller kid in the hopes that no one would notice me. But preschool me could not possibly have known that this shyness was the tip of a much bigger and more serious iceberg. Around the beginning of high school, things started to really hit me. High school is usually a time for teens to figure out who they want to be and to form new, meaningful relationships. But that is certainly not what it felt like to me. Due to my anxiety, I was cut off from any relationships at school. I had no friends. Some people might be tempted to laugh at the notion that a high school boy could not make friends, but there was absolutely nothing funny about it. Lacking the emotional connection that friends provide leads to dark and lonely places. I made my way through high school as best as I could, managing to keep my grades up but still feeling lonely and incredibly unhappy. By junior year I knew that I should reach out to someone, anyone, for help. There were mental health assemblies at school where the teachers made it quite clear that struggling with mental health is nothing to be ashamed of. They encouraged students to reach out to the counseling department if they needed someone to talk to. They were right of course, but at the time I brushed them off. I was worried that if I confessed to anyone how I was feeling they would look at me differently, perhaps as if I was weak or attention-seeking. Again, this was not the case. No one who struggles with mental health is weak. Nevertheless, admitting that you are struggling is an extremely daunting task-but is the first step to improvement. Once I realized this, I made it my goal to confess to my parents how I was feeling so that I could get the necessary help. Should be easy, right? All I had to do was have a quick conversation and I’d be on my way. Any time I was alone with my mom or dad I knew it was an opportune moment to reach out to them. But I was too scared, too worried of what might happen if they thought I was just being silly. Would they ever look at me the same again? I remember one occasion in particular when my mom was leaving the house and she said, casually, “I’ll be back in a bit, I’m heading to a therapy session.” At that moment, the topic of mental health was just thrown so casually into the air that I was amazed. How could someone possibly be so open about their own mental health? It was absurd. But this openness sparked something within me. At that point I knew that I could delay the inevitable conversation no longer. There were no more excuses I could make. I approached my mom one evening and steeled myself to ask the unthinkable-to ask for help. I nervously stammered, “Would it be possible to, like, get a therapist or something-maybe?” I braced myself for the answer, feeling more anxious than I had ever been in my life. She did not downplay my concerns. She agreed and immediately, with my dad, began taking steps to help me, setting me up with a therapist and scheduling appointments to make sure I received the best support possible. This started a streak of self improvement that led to me being more physically and mentally healthy than I had ever been before. There is no doubt that I still struggle with it even today, but seeking help and talking about my mental health rather than ignoring it and shoving it away has changed me. Sure, I might still be anxious when I place my order at Mcdonald’s-but I do it knowing that I am safe and secure, and that the worst possible thing that could happen is me fumbling over my order. I wish everyone could get the help that I got, that every person had a family as loving and supportive as mine. But that is not the case. Some people may go their entire lives pretending they don’t have mental health struggles out of shame or guilt. When we start realizing that there is no shame at all, we can take the steps to improve. We are not weak because of anxiety, depression, or anything else-but we are strong if we can conquer them.

My heart was beating in my chest, I could feel my legs shaking below me. Sweat was beginning to run down my face, but I hardly noticed. All I could focus on were the thoughts that were racing through my head. Suddenly, the person in front of me moved out of the way, and I stepped forward. Trembling, I looked up to see a man staring at me. I gulped, then recited the order I had been rehearsing for the last 5 minutes. The Mcdonald’s employee lazily wrote down my order, took my money and handed me a receipt. I stepped out of the line and made my way to a booth, relief pouring over me. It sounds ridiculous-how could someone struggle with something as simple as placing an order at Mcdonald’s? But that was just one of the many scenarios where my anxiety took control of me. I have been shy ever since I was a preschooler. During any kinds of performances or skits, I would often raise my shirt up to hide my face or else duck behind a taller kid in the hopes that no one would notice me. But preschool me could not possibly have known that this shyness was the tip of a much bigger and more serious iceberg. Around the beginning of high school, things started to really hit me. High school is usually a time for teens to figure out who they want to be and to form new, meaningful relationships. But that is certainly not what it felt like to me. Due to my anxiety, I was cut off from any relationships at school. I had no friends. Some people might be tempted to laugh at the notion that a high school boy could not make friends, but there was absolutely nothing funny about it. Lacking the emotional connection that friends provide leads to dark and lonely places. I made my way through high school as best as I could, managing to keep my grades up but still feeling lonely and incredibly unhappy. By junior year I knew that I should reach out to someone, anyone, for help. There were mental health assemblies at school where the teachers made it quite clear that struggling with mental health is nothing to be ashamed of. They encouraged students to reach out to the counseling department if they needed someone to talk to. They were right of course, but at the time I brushed them off. I was worried that if I confessed to anyone how I was feeling they would look at me differently, perhaps as if I was weak or attention-seeking. Again, this was not the case. No one who struggles with mental health is weak. Nevertheless, admitting that you are struggling is an extremely daunting task-but is the first step to improvement. Once I realized this, I made it my goal to confess to my parents how I was feeling so that I could get the necessary help. Should be easy, right? All I had to do was have a quick conversation and I’d be on my way. Any time I was alone with my mom or dad I knew it was an opportune moment to reach out to them. But I was too scared, too worried of what might happen if they thought I was just being silly. Would they ever look at me the same again? I remember one occasion in particular when my mom was leaving the house and she said, casually, “I’ll be back in a bit, I’m heading to a therapy session.” At that moment, the topic of mental health was just thrown so casually into the air that I was amazed. How could someone possibly be so open about their own mental health? It was absurd. But this openness sparked something within me. At that point I knew that I could delay the inevitable conversation no longer. There were no more excuses I could make. I approached my mom one evening and steeled myself to ask the unthinkable-to ask for help. I nervously stammered, “Would it be possible to, like, get a therapist or something-maybe?” I braced myself for the answer, feeling more anxious than I had ever been in my life. She did not downplay my concerns. She agreed and immediately, with my dad, began taking steps to help me, setting me up with a therapist and scheduling appointments to make sure I received the best support possible. This started a streak of self improvement that led to me being more physically and mentally healthy than I had ever been before. There is no doubt that I still struggle with it even today, but seeking help and talking about my mental health rather than ignoring it and shoving it away has changed me. Sure, I might still be anxious when I place my order at Mcdonald’s-but I do it knowing that I am safe and secure, and that the worst possible thing that could happen is me fumbling over my order. I wish everyone could get the help that I got, that every person had a family as loving and supportive as mine. But that is not the case. Some people may go their entire lives pretending they don’t have mental health struggles out of shame or guilt. When we start realizing that there is no shame at all, we can take the steps to improve. We are not weak because of anxiety, depression, or anything else-but we are strong if we can conquer them.