Mental health has never been a distant topic for me—it’s been personal, present, and deeply shaping. It’s shown up in my own struggles and, more painfully, in the loss of someone I loved. Losing a close friend to suicide isn’t something you “move on” from. You move with it. The grief, the questions, the guilt—they shift and evolve, but they don’t vanish. They become part of how you see the world and your place in it. That experience, and my ongoing journey with mental health, has transformed the way I think, love, and dream about the future.
Beliefs
Before I really understood mental health—before I lost my friend—I used to see the world in much clearer terms. There were fixes, answers, reasons. I believed that if someone was struggling, all they needed was support, maybe some therapy, maybe just time. But suicide shattered that neat picture. It made me realize how complicated and invisible mental illness can be. It made me reckon with the fact that even the most loved, the most outwardly “together” people can be deeply hurting.
Now, I don’t believe in easy answers. I believe in complexity. I believe in compassion over judgment, listening over assuming, and presence over problem-solving. I believe pain is not a weakness or a flaw—it’s part of the human experience. And most importantly, I believe we need each other. Healing isn’t something we do alone. It’s something we build in community, through honesty, through showing up.
I’ve also had to wrestle with my beliefs about grief and guilt. When someone you love dies by suicide, especially someone close, there’s this persistent question: What could I have done? I’ve learned that grief isn’t something to “solve.” It’s something to carry with gentleness. My beliefs have become less about control and more about surrender. Less about trying to save everyone and more about showing up as fully and openly as I can—for others and for myself.
Relationships
When someone close to you dies by suicide, every relationship shifts. Some people pull away, unsure how to be around your grief. Others show up in ways that surprise you. For me, it created a before-and-after moment in my relationships.
Before, I often kept things light, stayed in the shallow end. I didn’t want to be a burden or make anyone uncomfortable. But after losing my friend, that felt impossible. I started craving realness. I wanted conversations that mattered. I wanted to know how people were really doing—not just the “fine” version, but the messy, complicated truth.
I also became more protective of the people I love. I check in more. I listen differently. I don’t assume someone is okay just because they look it. And I try to offer what I wish I could’ve given my friend—presence without pressure, space without silence, love without condition.
At the same time, my boundaries got clearer. Grief taught me how important it is to care for others without abandoning myself. It made me see that I can’t be everything to everyone—and that being there for someone doesn’t mean fixing them. It means walking with them, even when the path is dark.
Career Aspirations
Before all of this, I had some ideas about my career—success, security, maybe even prestige. But after going through my own mental health struggles and losing my friend, all of that felt hollow. I started asking different questions: What actually matters to me? What kind of impact do I want to have? What kind of spaces do I want to create—for others and for myself?
Now, I know I want my career to be rooted in meaning. Whether that’s through mental health advocacy, social work, education, writing, or some intersection of those, I want to be part of something that helps people feel seen and heard. I want to build spaces where honesty is safe, where struggle isn’t stigmatized, and where healing—however imperfect—is possible.
I’ve become deeply passionate about mental health awareness, particularly in breaking the silence around suicide. I want to speak about it openly, so fewer people feel alone in their pain. I want to help change the narrative from shame to empathy, from fear to understanding. I also want to contribute to systems that prioritize well-being—not just productivity or performance.
This experience has made me realize that we don’t have to separate our pain from our purpose. In fact, sometimes our deepest wounds are what fuel our greatest contributions. I’ve stopped seeing my mental health challenges as liabilities and started seeing them as insight—as lived experience that gives me the ability to connect, relate, and support others in a more real and grounded way.
Moving Forward, With Both Grief and Hope
Grief is now part of me. It’s not everything I am, but it lives alongside my joy, my ambition, my growth. I think of my friend often—sometimes in sadness, sometimes in gratitude. They’ve shaped who I am in ways I never expected. And while I would give anything to have them back, I carry their memory with me as a reminder of what really matters: love, honesty, connection.
Mental health, for me, is not just a topic—it’s a lens. It’s how I see the world. It’s how I want to serve the world. I don’t need a perfect life. I want a real one. One where healing is possible, where people feel less alone, and where we’re not afraid to talk about the hard things.
That’s the life I’m working toward. That’s the kind of career I want. And that’s the kind of person I hope to be.