If you had asked me ten years ago what mental health meant, I probably would have given you a textbook answer. I would have talked about depression, anxiety, PTSD, or bipolar disorder. I understood the diagnoses because of my healthcare background, but I didn't fully understand the people behind them. Today, I see mental health very differently.
I see it in the veteran who jokes with everyone in the waiting room but quietly admits he hasn't slept through the night in years. I see it in the patient whose blood pressure refuses to come down because the stress in their life never gives them a chance to breathe. I see it in the exhausted parent trying to hold everything together while silently wondering if they're enough. I even see it in healthcare professionals who spend every day taking care of everyone else while convincing themselves they don't need help. I've realized that mental health isn't just one part of our lives. It influences how we think, how we love, how we respond to adversity, and how we see ourselves. Understanding that has completely changed my beliefs, strengthened my relationships, and ultimately shaped the career I hope to spend the rest of my life building.
Growing up in a single-parent household, mental health wasn't something we talked about. My brothers and I watched our mother work tirelessly to make sure we had everything we needed. Looking back now, I realize she carried an incredible amount of stress. She worried about bills, made sacrifices we didn't fully appreciate as children, and somehow still managed to make our house feel like home. There wasn't much time to stop and talk about emotional well-being because survival came first. Like so many families, we simply handled what needed to be handled and kept moving forward. As a kid, I thought that was what strength looked like.
Serving seven years in the United States Air Force as a medic challenged that belief. I had the privilege of serving alongside incredible men and women who were disciplined, dependable, and willing to put the mission before themselves. On the outside, they appeared confident and resilient. On the inside, many were carrying anxiety, trauma, grief, or experiences they rarely discussed. What stayed with me wasn't the fact that they struggled. It was how many believed they had to struggle alone.
After leaving the military and becoming a Registered Nurse, I realized that mindset wasn't unique to service members. Working at the Department of Veterans Affairs has shown me that mental health and physical health are deeply connected. Patients often come to the clinic because of chronic pain, headaches, insomnia, fatigue, or uncontrolled blood pressure. Those concerns are real, but after taking the time to sit down and truly listen, you often discover something much deeper beneath the surface. Grief after losing a spouse. Anxiety that has gone untreated for years. Loneliness after retirement. Trauma that has quietly followed them long after their military service ended. Those conversations changed me. Instead of asking myself, "What's wrong with this person?" I started asking a different question: "What has this person been carrying that no one else has noticed?" That single change in perspective has influenced every relationship in my life.
It has made me more patient with my patients, more understanding with my coworkers, and more intentional with my family and friends. I've learned that people rarely want someone to immediately solve every problem they're facing. Most of the time, they simply want someone who will listen without judgment. That lesson has become one of the most valuable things I've learned throughout my career. Mental health has also changed the relationship I have with myself.
For a long time, I believed independence meant handling everything on my own. If I was overwhelmed or stressed, I convinced myself I just needed to work harder or keep pushing forward. Asking for help felt uncomfortable because somewhere along the way, I had started believing that strong people handled everything by themselves. Therapy challenged that belief.
It reminded me that strength isn't pretending everything is okay. Strength is being honest enough to admit when it isn't. Therapy helped me process experiences I had carried for years, taught me healthier ways to manage stress, and reminded me that taking care of my own mental health allows me to better care for others. It also reinforced something I tell my patients every day: asking for help is never something to be ashamed of. Those experiences are exactly why I'm pursuing my Doctor of Nursing Practice degree to become a Psychiatric Mental Health Nurse Practitioner.
People often assume my goal is simply to diagnose mental illness or prescribe medication. While those responsibilities are certainly important, they are only one part of what I hope to accomplish. My real goal is to create an environment where people feel safe enough to be honest. I want patients to know they don't have to pretend they're okay just because the world expects them to be.
Whether I'm caring for a veteran living with PTSD, a college student struggling with anxiety, or a parent overwhelmed by life's responsibilities, I want every person who sits across from me to know they have my full attention. I want them to feel respected, understood, and valued as a person instead of being defined by a diagnosis or a chart.
I know I won't be able to solve every problem someone brings into my office. Mental health is complex, and healing doesn't happen overnight. But I firmly believe that every conversation rooted in compassion has the potential to change someone's life. Sometimes people don't remember every word you say, but they never forget how you made them feel.
Mental health has influenced my beliefs by teaching me that compassion is stronger than judgment. It has strengthened my relationships by reminding me to lead with empathy instead of assumptions. Most importantly, it has shaped my career aspirations by showing me that caring for people means caring for every part of who they are not just the symptoms they present with. At the end of the day, my career isn't really about mental illness. It's about people. It's about making sure that when someone walks into my office during one of the hardest seasons of their life, they leave feeling something they may not have felt in a long time: heard, respected, and hopeful. Because sometimes healing doesn't begin with the perfect diagnosis or the perfect treatment plan. Sometimes healing begins the moment someone realizes they no longer have to carry their burdens alone.