“Healing a Heart of Service” by AinkaAmara Williams

When people speak about community service its mostly focus on what we give which is our time, effort, and our energy. But I’ve learned that sometimes, what was gained is far more greater than what was given. As a Black young adult battling Major depressive disorder and Generalized Anxiety disorder, service wasn't found because I was strong. It was found because It was what’s needed in my life. It helps me feel less alone, less lost, less invisible, and more led with purpose. I found the simple yet most powerful act of writing letters to the elderly, and in those letters, I found not just a way to give others hope, but a way to keep going myself. Mental Health is not always a topic that is loud. Sometimes, it's quiet, creeping in like a thunder storm after a sunny day in Atlanta Georgia. It does not always look like tears or mental breakdowns; at least for me, it sometimes looks a lot like numbness, like waking up and wondering why out of all people I woke up that morning. It looked like I was pretending I was okay because I didn't want to burden those around me or because some days I was more high-functioning in my depressive episodes than most. It looked like silent wishes that maybe the next couple of tomorrows won't feel so heavy. As a young black lady, I often felt like I wasn't allowed to feel these emotions. That I didn't have the ability to safely express my vulnerabilities. In our communities, mental health can be a tricky topic to bring up something that you pray away or tough out because that is what the generations behind us were taught. But I knew that thuggin it out was a mechanism that led me to more silent breakdowns, more burnout, more isolation, and more hate. I knew I needed an outlet.

Writing is that and always has been that outlet for me. Since I was little, words were my refuge. Other than singing, I wrote poetry, stories, book outlines, journal entries – anything that allowed for me to make sense of the chaos that rested in my head. So when my friend introduced me to a nonprofit organization called Love For Our Elders, which connects the youth with elderly people through handwritten or virtually created letters or cards, a match lit up within me. It was something so small but manageable and most importantly meaningful. At first, I had no clue what to write. I don't personally know these people, only the context of what their family members put on the website. What could I, a young adult struggling with school, my own sense of purpose and deed, possibly offer them? But then I thought about what I needed in my darkest of days: to feel seen, heard, valued, important. So I wrote the letters with that leading in the back of my mind. I told some stories, I asked questions, offered words of encouragement, affirmations. I talked about my favorite music, memories, favorite quotes or even dreams, honestly writing about the little things that make life worth holding onto. Even though they don't give letters back, I hope they realized that writing to them gave me hope, and hopefully the feeling was mutual.

Every letter was weaved together with a thread, stitching together generations of people who might never have met otherwise. It became more than community service, completely 50 letters unknowingly just writing to bloom and give hope. It was like building a bridge between my pain and their isolation meeting in the middle to say “The ties that bind us are stronger than the occasional stresses that separate us” by Colin Powell.

There is a deep power that resides in gratitude. I didn't always have the strength to be grateful for my life but I couldn't be more grateful to have the ability to touch someone else's heart. I started writing to declutter my mind but I didn't realise that even in my lowest moments I had something to give. I had something that was valuable. That's not an easy thing to lean onto when your mind is telling you otherwise. Feeling the impact, allowed for some of those thoughts to quiet down. However small, it gave me a sense of purpose. Being a Black young adult in this world comes with its own set of challenges. We're often expected to be resilient at the point of silence. But I've learned that real strength comes from speaking of life through vulnerability, from saying to someone that “I am struggling”, and choosing to show up. Writing letters to the elderly became my way of showing up. It was an act of rebellion against the voices in my head that told me nothing I did mattered. It was my way of planting the seeds of hope in places that felt forgotten and lost – both in myself and others.

Community service is always about big grand gestures. Sometimes it is about sitting with just a pen and a piece of paper and choosing love. Sometimes, it's about writing “You are not alone” to someone you've never seen before or met and realizing you may have needed to hear those words too. I've discovered that healing doesn't always come from being saved – it comes from saving each other, one step at a time, word by word.

While some days I still struggle I learn to smile more. I learned that my tool to make a difference is embedded within the power of my hands, my voice, and my strength. I use this tool to make a choice to change the minds of others including myself. Finding purpose in my pain, healing in my voice and hope in the quietest of space between two people sharing one's truth.

That's the thing about community service – it's a task but it's such a gift at the same time. I was reminded that I have something to offer to the world, even when my mind tells me the opposite. Being able to give back authentically and purely through my hearts and through my words is something that’ll never be taken for granted. To write to those who have lived their lives to the fullest who have seen and engaged in the world is an honor to be able to touch their hearts in some ways. It's a blessing in disguise to be able to offer them a sense of hope and joy in their last stages of life, while still trying to figure that out myself.

I don't have all the answers. Some days will still be dark. But I've learned that we don't have to fully heal to begin to help others. We just have to be compassionate and willing to step out. Willing to reach and create that connection. Created that community. Create healing in the smallest places.

That to me is the heart of service. Healing yourself through others can be the heart of service.