“Finding My Way Back” by Anonymous Teen

At the age of twelve in 2022, the entire world outside of me just faded. The days just were too hard, as if carrying an armored school backpack filled with bricks, and others couldn't perceive them. I'd look through the glass at the outside trees, at the street—but the entire world just didn't shine and just seemed like all paint faded. There was some tempest raging inside of my own mind and never left. That's when others told me how those struggles were identified: depression and anxiety.

Day by day, I woke up feeling tired before even getting out of bed. My chest was tight, and my thoughts could never be calm. What if today I embarrass myself? What if there's something wrong with me that my friends won't like? What if I'm unable to do anything and everything? Even if nothing bad had happened, my thoughts acted as if the worst was just around the next corner.

I learned to be an expert at faking it. At school, I'd smile, I'd laugh where it was appropriate, and I'd inform others that I was "fine." But on the inside, there was an emptiness and I felt like I was fading away. I spent less and less time with friends, less and less time doing things that brought me pleasure, and increasingly time at home in my own bedroom with my door closed. The silence was safe—but lonely.

One evening, it was too much for me. I sat next to my bed, looking at the carpet, and the words just came flooding out to my mom: “I’m not okay.” My voice trembled, my hands were chilly, and tears streamed down my face before I attempted to hold them back. She didn’t say something like “just perk up” or “be optimistic.” She hugged me and breathed gently, “I’m here. We’ll get through this together.” For the first time in months, I didn’t feel totally alone.

We were successful in finding a therapist, and at first it was strange—to talk to a stranger about what was on my mind. But soon enough, I was able to cope. I began to write down what was on my mind so it wouldn't get stuck there. I learned to breathe slowly when panic set in, imagining the air flowing over me like waves over the beach. And I learned that it's okay to go inch-by-inch, even if at first they aren't very big.

It's just that now there isn't anything wrong anymore. The mornings of sorrow reach out to wrap around me on some days. The fears yell louder than the courage on some days. But now, I understand those thoughts don’t get to determine the narrative. I'm bigger than my depression. I'm greater than my fears. I'm a being made of human clay where the tempest can be weathered and progress made anyway. If you're reading this, and you're in something like that, I want you to understand that you're not broken either. Reaching out for help is not weakness, it's strength. And even when it seems like the light went out, it's still there, it just needs you to keep moving in its direction, step by step.