I was bawling my eyes out as my mother banged aggressively on the doors and windows, screaming my name and blowing up my phone with texts. I had been sick for two days, so my dad took me to the emergency room. As we waited, the nurse handed me a suicide survey, and my heart sank. How would my family react? Soon, I confessed to the nurse that I had been self-harming and wanted to die. She passed me a tissue and brought in a social worker. After many questions, she called my dad in and told him. He looked devastated, but he just wanted the best for me. I was discharged, and my dad didn't pressure me, but he told my grandma, who was worried. I begged him not to tell my mom, but I knew she had to know. When he finally told her, she was both angry and upset that I had self-harmed. She also expressed strange racial concerns, insisting I avoid certain people. Despite her inappropriate reaction, my dad reassured me that things would be okay. I eventually went to outpatient therapy. The staff were kind and supportive, treating me like a human being rather than just a “sick” person. Being African American, I knew our community didn’t always understand mental health issues, and my mom was one of those people. In our culture, depression isn’t supposed to exist, but I knew I needed help. Outpatient was difficult, but healing. I learned coping skills, understood my triggers, and realized that mental health was just as important as physical health. The experience also brought me closer to my dad, who finally began to understand what I was going through. It was a turning point for me. I began to see that I wasn’t broken; I just needed tools to manage my emotions. I stayed in outpatient for four months, and during that time, I distanced myself from my mom. I still loved her, but our relationship was strained. One day, she demanded I come to her house. As I spoke to her on the phone, I felt paralyzed with fear. After the call, I broke down in tears, telling my dad I didn’t want to go. He reassured me that I didn’t have to, and he called my grandma to help. That night, my mom showed up at the house, banging on doors and windows, calling me names, and sending me texts. I knew at that moment our relationship had to change. My therapist and I both knew it was time to cut someone out of my life who had hurt me emotionally for so long. So, I did. Now I am continuing with therapy and work on goals I use my coping skills to help me during stuff times. I share my story with others to heal me in a way and also help others know that they are not alone. I set a good manageable routine for me. When I need help with work I always make sure I ask for help. I set boundaries for myself. I journal everyday I allow myself to grieve and I have joined the mental health awareness club to share and help