I miss my brother.
His name is Olando, but we call him CJ. When I think about mental health, I do not start with statistics or diagnoses. I think about the bright young man my brother used to be, the family we had before his illness, and the years we have spent hoping that parts of him will one day come back to us.
When CJ was roughly eighteen years old, he started having serious problems with his mental health. Around that time, some teenage friends gave him marijuana to smoke, and soon after, we noticed considerable changes. To our family, he was never the same afterward. The brother I knew seemed to vanish before our eyes.
CJ was intelligent with a bright future. Now, he does not remember parts of his earlier life, and his illness has greatly altered the person we knew. One of the hardest parts of loving someone with severe mental illness is grieving someone who is still physically there. I can see my brother, talk to my brother, and love my brother, yet I still miss the CJ I grew up with.
His illness affected our whole family.
My mother has spent much of her life, savings, energy, and resources caring for him. As one of three children, I watched our home change as more and more of her attention shifted to the child who needed her most. Distance developed among us. We felt frustration, financial strain, and emotions we didn't always know how to express.
During our most difficult times, I tried to bring us back together. Sometimes this meant difficult conversations; other times, it was simply sharing a family meal or going for a walk. Those moments did not heal my brother or erase what our family was experiencing, but they reminded us that mental illness did not also have to destroy our connection.
For years, we were not simply trying to understand CJ's mental health; we were learning to live alongside it.
My understanding of mental illness changed. I realized its effects are not confined to the person diagnosed; they can affect an entire household. Parents become caregivers, siblings adjust, financial priorities shift, relationships are tested, and families grieve, hope, grow frustrated, feel guilty for being frustrated, then wake up the next day and continue loving that person.
Above all, I learned that compassion and honesty go hand in hand. I can acknowledge what my brother's illness has cost our family without blaming him for being ill. I can admit there were times when I felt overlooked while recognizing the difficult position my mother was in. I can grieve the brother I remember while continuing to love the brother who is here today.
I am still able to hope.
Just when I thought I understood its impact on a family, mental illness affected mine in another way.
Six years ago, my twelve-year-old daughter Ronecia was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
My world broke apart beneath me.
I had seen what mental illness had done to my mother, brother, our finances, and relationships. I knew the sacrifices my other brother and I had made as our family struggled through something we never fully understood. Now I was looking at my own child, terrified history might repeat itself.
But within that fear, a stronger determination to fight emerged.
I decided I needed to succeed, not because I wanted a degree as wall decor, but because I wanted to give my brother and daughter the medical, emotional, and psychosocial support they might need throughout their lives. I wanted them to have choices. I wanted stability. I wanted a family where mental illness could be discussed openly and treated without shame.
That is one reason I continue pushing through my own difficulties. When tuition problems threaten my studies, classes are canceled, finances become overwhelming, or completing my degree feels almost impossible, I keep going. I continue working to keep my GPA competitive because I know what I am working toward.
I have a goal, and I am not there yet.
Every educational and professional milestone is an opportunity to change my family's future. I am creating a future for my children, but I also hope to support my mother after everything she has sacrificed, ensure my brother receives the care and stability he needs, and give my daughter every opportunity to live a full and meaningful life.
In many ways, I have become one of the people my family relies on to help move us forward. That responsibility can feel heavy, but it gives my ambitions greater meaning.
Success is no longer simply a degree, title, or income. It means having the resources to support the people I love and ensuring our family's sacrifices do not determine where our story ends.
My experiences with CJ and Ronecia changed how I see other families. Behind someone struggling with mental illness may be a mother exhausting her savings, a sibling quietly feeling neglected, a parent frightened about a child's future, or an entire family trying to hold themselves together while appearing normal to the outside world.
That understanding has made me more determined to promote awareness, compassion, support, and honest conversations about mental health.
Mental illness affected my brother's life, my daughter's life, and my own.
I cannot give CJ back the years he has lost. I cannot recover the moments mental illness has taken from Ronecia or erase my fears as her mother. I cannot reconstruct the family we were before mental illness entered our lives.
I can keep loving them, fighting for them, and believing they can improve and lead meaningful lives. I can use every opportunity to create a future where my family has more choices, support, and hope than before.
I still miss my brother.
But I have never stopped hoping for him.
With that same hope, I firmly believe in the possibility of a bright future for my daughter.