Ever since I was a kid, I knew I wasn’t considered normal—whatever that means. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, terrified that monsters were in my room or that someone I loved would suddenly die. I was so small, yet already holding feelings too big for me. Bullied for how I looked—my teeth, my body—I learned to stay silent. I was taught to be kind, to remember others might be struggling too. So I swallowed my pain, thinking it didn’t matter. But sadness does not vanish when ignored—it grows. I often picture it like a tree. The trunk is who we are, and each branch holds a kind of sorrow: grief, heartbreak, loneliness. Some days those branches stretch toward light. Other days, they twist around my throat.

For a long time, I didn’t understand what I was feeling. There was no diagnosis, no clear label. Just a constant ache, a quiet storm I couldn’t escape. And because I saw others hurting more visibly, I convinced myself I didn’t have the right to feel sad. I felt guilty for struggling. That guilt made it harder to speak up, and being told I was “too sensitive” or “over dramatic” only made it worse. I began to think maybe I was just broken in a way no one could fix.

Even once I knew something was wrong, I tried to convince myself I was fine. I had food, a roof, people who cared—how could I be depressed? But sadness doesn’t care about circumstance. It slipped into my bones and stayed. As I grew older, it grew too. Teen years brought pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way, achieve what others expected. I looked in the mirror and felt disgust instead of pride. I’d turn sideways and feel shame over every change in my body. I hated myself quietly, constantly, and no one knew.

Living with this sadness is like dragging invisible chains. Some days I manage okay. Other days, I feel like I’ll be crushed. But I found one place where the weight lifts: the stage. Theatre became my escape. In those moments under the lights, I got to be someone else, to feel everything and hide nothing. And more importantly, I met people—my theatre friends—who gave me the freedom to be me. They saw the messy, emotional, real version of me and didn’t flinch. They’ve held me up when I was breaking. They’ve made life feel possible again.

The hardest part of my journey was watching my biggest fear unfold: sitting in the front row of a funeral. I remember how unreal it felt, how cold and sharp the pain was. I had no one to lean on but myself, and it shattered me. But even in that moment, I learned something: the tree can bend, but it doesn’t have to break. I’ve realized that pain isn’t proof of weakness—it’s part of being human. Every branch on my tree, no matter how heavy, tells a piece of my story. And that story is still being written.

My support system isn’t perfect, but it’s powerful. My theatre friends, especially, have been everything. They are the reason I get out of bed in the morning. They remind me that I’m not too much. That I matter. My family and mentors have helped too, but it’s in the laughter between rehearsals and the quiet understanding backstage that I’ve found healing. Their love doesn’t erase the sadness, but it helps me carry it.

One in five teens struggles with mental health. Suicide is the second leading cause of death for people our age. These numbers are terrifying because they are real. And yet, behind every number is a story—a person like me, like you. I’ve learned that silence helps no one. That pain shared becomes a little lighter. So if you're carrying your own branches of sadness, please reach out. You are not alone. Let someone hold your hand, your heart, your branches. We grow stronger together. We grow toward the light.