“My Healing, Written Through Blank Pages” by Victoria Zhang

I’ve always been drawn to blank pages. They used to terrify me—so much white space, so many things I didn’t know how to say. But over time, I began to realize that blank pages understood me in a way that people didn’t. They didn’t flinch at my fears or judge my lows, they simply listened. And slowly, they became the place where I started to make sense of myself—of my mind. I was trying to understand its unpredictability, its heaviness, its fear. While I’ve never had a formal diagnosis, I’ve struggled with my mental health for years. I’ve pushed through chronic cycles of anxiety, emotional numbness, and spiraling episodes that have impacted nearly every corner of my life: my confidence, my ability to connect with others, and the way I see myself. At times, it’s like I’m drowning in a river of thoughts I can’t control; other times, like I’ve disappeared completely from the face of the earth. But through writing, I found solace. My blank pages became a mirror, a map, and a way forward that, to this day, continues to guide me through my journey. This is the story of that journey with invisible mental health challenges that shaped my identity, inspired my future, and taught me that while healing isn’t linear, it is possible—especially when you listen to your voice.

It began quietly, almost invisibly. Subtle enough that I didn’t know how to name it. I only knew that something felt off, that there was a growing weight pressing against my chest, even when everything on the outside looked fine. I didn’t yet understand that what I was experiencing was tied to mental health. Middle school was the beginning of my unraveling. On the surface, I was the model student: high grades, endless effort. But behind the report cards and awards was a girl who deeply lacked self-worth, suffocating under the belief that her worth came only from achievement. That mindset brought a flood of internal struggles. Anxiety became my companion as I constantly stressed over test scores. I obsessed over doing everything flawlessly, wearing perfectionism like a badge of honor when it was actually increasing my anxiety. My self doubt skyrocketed as I compared myself to other girls who were smarter, prettier, funnier than me. However, with my eyes fixed on achievement, I convinced myself that there was no time for distractions. I saw internal struggle as a weakness, and weaknesses, I believed, were threats to my goals. And so I silenced the voice inside me that was crying out to be seen, to be understood, to be loved. Eventually, the feelings I tried to bury surfaced in ways I could no longer ignore. It started with spiraling over the smallest mistakes and waking up with a tight chest. But soon, the pressure became unbearable. I struggled to get out of bed, dragging through the day with no energy or motivation. I isolated myself, retreating into my room and scrolling endlessly through social media—not out of boredom, but because I didn’t know how to cope. I hated how it made me feel, constantly comparing myself to people who seemed to be having it all together. Yet even though I knew it was hurting me, I couldn’t stop. It was like the world was balanced on my glass shoulders—one wrong move, and I’d shatter. The threat loomed like a never-ending storm, paralyzing me. All I could do was stay still, frozen, as the hours slipped by and I spiraled deeper.

That’s when I realized—I wasn’t just lazy or distracted. I was emotionally burnt out. And when I heard other girls open up about their own mental health, something clicked. I looked up the symptoms and saw myself reflected in them. I wasn’t imagining it. This was anxiety. Depression. Insecurity. Finally, I had words for what I was going through. At first, that realization left me uneasy. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved, afraid, or ashamed. Part of me felt validated. But I also felt lost, unsure of what to do next. I had uncovered the truth, but how was I supposed to live with it? And out of all problems, mental health seemed like such a minor inconvenience compared to everything else happening in the world. I was just another teenage girl with her own issues. Still, even if my struggles felt small in the grand scheme of things, they were real. And they seeped into every corner of my daily life.

Some days, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of the ocean, watching the tide rush in and out—each wave a new emotion I can’t control. The seastorms came without warning: a sharp comment from a peer, a test I didn’t have enough time to study for, a bad skin day. Something small would trigger everything, and I’d crash, overwhelmed by the force of doubt. It wrecked my confidence and self-esteem, drowning me in oceans of overthinking. The perfectionism that once drove me now intensely fueled my anxiety, turning on me in ways I couldn’t manage. Other times, the tides were calm, but I still lived in fear of the next storm. While I’ve always been an introvert, it was during my teenage years that it became a real problem. My anxiety made it impossible to even speak at an audible level, whether it was in class or in public. I kept my thoughts to myself, afraid I’d be judged. I began to see my life like a puzzle: scattered, unclear. Who was I, and where did I belong? Why did everyone else seem to have it figured out? It took time to open up. Even writing the truth on a blank page felt terrifying. But I kept showing up, wave after wave. And maybe that was enough. Writing became my anchor, something that gave shape to the mess inside me and helped me move toward healing.

Despite everything, I’ve come to see that my softness is not a weakness; it’s my strength. In the past, I tried to bury that part of me under layers of perfectionism, believing my worth depended on how well I performed. But over time, I grew to understand that the most meaningful changes happen quietly, internally. I’ve grown not just by collecting accomplishments, but by unlearning the belief that I needed to be perfect. Living with these struggles is perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I wouldn’t undo it. I’ve gained priceless insights from my challenges, ones that I wouldn’t trade for ease. My thoughtfulness, once something I felt made me “too much,” is actually a gift. It allows me to notice beauty in little things: a moment that I made someone smile, the comfort of my favorite Chinese dishes, the scent of morning rain. I’ve also learned that healing isn’t linear—in fact, it’s often messy and unpredictable. There are moments of clarity and joy, but also setbacks and spirals. I’ve stopped expecting perfection and started appreciating progress, no matter how small. It’s this journey with mental health that made me fall in love with psychology. I want to understand not only myself, but others. The mind fascinates me, but more than that, I’ve learned the power of being seen, and I want to offer that to others. I want to help people feel less alone, just like I once wished someone could do for me. If there’s one thing I know now, it’s that empathy matters. And I hope to build a life where I can use mine to make a difference.

While I often carried my struggles quietly, I’ve also learned that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens with support. At first, I kept most of my feelings to myself, unsure of how to open up or whether anyone would understand. Eventually, I realized that the deepest, most treasured relationships are built on vulnerability. Though I didn’t have access to therapy and wasn’t always able to reach out, the support I did receive, especially from a few close friends, made all the difference. Their encouragement during my lowest points reminded me that joy still existed, even when my life felt deprived of it. I will always cherish the memories we’ve made together, which never fail to bring a smile to my face. My family and mentors have helped too, particularly my mother, whose love and advice allowed me to grow. All of these people have served as a supportive community in my life, reminding me that I’m not alone—even when the seastorm feels unbearable.

Now, when I stare at a blank page, I don’t see emptiness. I see possibility. Every entry, every story, every truth I’ve written has brought me closer to who I am. As I move forward, I carry my pages with me not as a finished book, but as a story in progress. One I hope to use to help others too. Mental health is often an invisible struggle, but that doesn’t make it any less real. It’s just as important as any physical illness, and when left untreated, it can be just as deadly. It’s a leading contributor to suicide, especially among young people who feel like no one understands. That’s why we need to talk about it. To share our stories and remind each other that being vulnerable doesn’t mean being weak. It means being human. If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that you don’t need everything figured out to keep going. There’s power in being soft. There’s strength in survival. And there’s hope in knowing that even the darkest, most reckless tide will eventually recede.