“Failing Kidneys” by Anonymous Teen

Since my brother’s first cries echoed through the hospital walls, my life has been woven with the hospital scent and the beeping of heart monitors. Kidney failure had its claws on my brother, and it had an unimaginable toll on my family and me. I was merely three when I witnessed my baby brother in the ICU, fighting for his life. My wide doe eyes watched his tiny body tethered to a machine too large for his frame. He might not make it, they told us. I hadn’t understood. I was promised a baby brother, wasn’t I?

Against the odds, my brother survived, but our relief was short-lived. A string of surgeries followed, and with each passing year, the looming possibility of his second kidney collapsing haunted our lives, threatening to sever the lifeline that kept my brother’s heart beating. I lived in constant fear. I feared change, feared sudden loss, and feared what I didn’t know. The fragility of his life began to mirror the fragility inside my mind.

However, instead of fighting the battle inside my mind, I resorted to building card castles. In the quiet of my room, I cautiously chose each card, placing them on the table with meticulous precision. Seeing the tower rise slowly and steadily was a fleeting moment of joy amidst the destruction of my home, a reminder that something could still be controlled, whether it be cards or my brother’s changing health. But it wasn’t just a hobby. It was a way of holding my rising anxiety at bay. The tension I hid, the tightness in my chest, the overthinking, the constriction in my throat, and the restlessness of my hands all paused when the cards stood still.

That stability, however, would crumble in an instant. A singular call sealed our fate: my brother needed a kidney transplant. At the time of the call, I was a high schooler disconnected, distant, and emotionally numb. I busied myself with distractions and detached myself from family. It felt safer that way. If I stayed detached, I wouldn't spiral. If I were focused on other things, I couldn’t crumble. It was easier to ignore reality. If I began to think about my brother's surgery, I would be vulnerable. If my mind wasn't focused, I couldn’t make card castles anymore. Without my balance, who was I?

But at one point, even the cards stopped standing tall. I couldn’t build anymore. My hands shook. The fear crept in. My card castles wavered. They tumbled. I was diagnosed with anxiety. I had to confront it: someone I loved was fighting for their life. My default coping mechanism— shutting down—didn’t work anymore. Watching my mother cry was when this realization came to light. My mother was a woman of unwavering strength, yet her sobs echoed through the hospital walls. And suddenly, I wasn’t just a child anymore. I was the anchor. The one who had to keep it together, even when my own thoughts were unraveling.

This turbulent period in my life broke me open, spilling everything out, leaving me bare and exposed in ways I wasn’t ready for. I had to learn to sit with fear instead of running from it. To feel the panic and still show up. To be present, even when my instinct screamed to escape, to run away, to disappear. However, I learned the true strength isn’t just endurance. It’s vulnerability. It’s letting the card castle fall, and still deciding to rebuild it, card by fragile card.

Throughout the transplant process, I supported my mother with gentle therapy measures: exercises, breathing techniques, and grounding methods that helped both her and me cope. After the successful surgery, I whispered reassurance to my family, even while my own breath felt shaky. But in that moment, I had an epiphany. I didn’t just want to help. Rather, I wanted to be someone who could carry others through their darkest moments. With that newfound purpose, I involved myself in advocacy, specifically targeting mental health.

I rebuilt my castle of cards. This time, not as an escape, but as a testament. Where once my need for stability came from avoidance, now it stems from resilience. The fear is still there. But now, so is the strength.

It’s difficult to find strength when it seems as if there is nothing strong to believe in, but hope is much stronger than many believe. It lingers in the quiet moments. For me, it lingered between hospital monitors and sleepless nights, in my mother’s gentle squeeze of my mind, in the decision to keep going, when everything in you wants to stop. Hope isn’t loud. It doesn’t shout or shine bright. It doesn’t tell you that everything is going to be okay, especially when you know that it won’t. But it stays. And over time, it teaches you to stay, too. When the weight feels too heavy, when your own mind turns against you, when nothing around you feels stable, I know that it can be hard to stay. It’s not rare to feel that way. In fact, it’s devastatingly common. Suicide is one of the leading causes of death among young people, and yet we barely talk about it.

Behind every number is someone who felt unnoticed, unheard, or too exhausted to keep going. I’ve felt close to that edge before. Not in the literal sense, but in the emotional one. The kind where you’re not sure how much more uncertainty, loss, pain, or fear you can hold. The kind where your mind feels as if it's teetering on the edge of complete collapse.

But I know that silence is dangerous. It makes you believe that you’re the only one hurting. That your fear makes you weak. That your mind is broken and unfixable. That’s what so many people believe before they reach their breaking point.

That’s why I believe so deeply in mental health awareness. It’s not simply an idea, but a necessity. Because when someone feels like they have nothing left, what they desperately need to know is that they’re not alone. That their pain is valid. That it’s okay to break. It’s okay to be vulnerable. And that there is still something, however small, worth holding on for.

For me, that “something” became my brother’s laugh after his transplant. My mom’s arms when I couldn’t breathe through the anxiety. My dad’s soothing words. A future I couldn’t see yet but dared to hope for anyway. And now, I want to help someone else find that “something”.

This is why I decided to share my story. That’s why I am speaking now. Because if even one person sees their pain reflected in mine and feels less alone, that’s a beginning. If someone reads these words and chooses to stay, even if it’s just for today, that’s enough.

Hope doesn’t fix everything. But it opens the door. And sometimes, opening the door is enough to keep going.