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Disclaimer: Youth MOVE Massachusetts values all religions and religious beliefs. YMM recognizes that everyone has different ways of coping with mental health challenges. This blog reflects one young adult’s lived experience and personal belief system. Please be respectful:)

When I was 11 years old, and I first began to struggle with my mental health, I felt very lost. I couldn’t pinpoint what was happening to me, so instead I bottled it all up and kept it to myself. Then, there was one day at the end of my fifth-grade year when keeping it inside felt impossible, and I came undone in the middle of class. I remember my teacher taking me outside the classroom and comforting me. She was trying really hard to understand what was going on, but even I didn’t know why I was crying. I just knew what I was feeling, which was an all-consuming worry and fear. I felt like an empty void had opened up inside my chest, and it hurt too much to breathe. The sadness and fear I felt had become so overwhelming that I could no longer ignore them.

I didn’t quite understand why or even how this was happening to me. So, when I went home that day and tried talking to my parents, I couldn’t find the words to tell them what had happened. Instead, I acted like I was fine and that this was just a one-time thing. However, a few months later, it became clear to them that I wasn’t fine. I tried talking to them. At the time, I believed that they just couldn’t understand what I was feeling. Maybe it was my inability to fully communicate my thoughts and emotions, or maybe it was our mutual lack of knowledge about the significance of mental health. Nonetheless, I had hope that my parents would help me feel better. Unfortunately, they were not equipped to. Although it was incredibly frustrating to me then, looking back now, I understand that not being able to rely on my parents was crucial to my healing. I realized that the peace I was seeking was not something my parents could provide me; it was something only God could satisfy.

A large part of my mental health battles have been fought at my bedside, with me on my knees, praying to God. There were many sleepless nights when I would spend hours crying in my room, trying to talk to Him through my panic attacks. In the beginning, my prayers consisted mostly of lots of tears and desperate cries for help. But what kind of help? I wasn’t really sure. Over time, I learned to ask for what I really needed; I prayed for healing, I prayed for peace, and I prayed for purpose. Because I had lost my passion for life, and I was so blinded by my pain, I couldn’t see a reason to wake up in the morning. But in my loneliest moments, when I felt like no one truly saw me – like I was fading away, drowning in an ocean of pain and helplessness that no one even noticed – I found renewed purpose in God’s love for me. What started as a cry for help became my biggest coping skill. My alone moments with Jesus, when I talk to Him, are when I feel the most sense of purpose because I know that even if everyone else were to turn me away, He never would. Learning to come to Him with all my concerns is one of the biggest lessons I have learned.

Now, every time a panic attack starts to settle in, I know I can run to Him. When I do that, whether it is by reading the Bible, listening to worship music, or venting to Him like I would in the beginning, I know I’ll be reminded of the truth. The truth about God’s love and grace for me, which has no bounds, the truth about my identity as His child, the truth about forgiveness, and the acceptance of my imperfections. Leaning into my faith and letting it guide me has been my greatest source of peace in the chaos. God has been my lifeline when I had nothing else to lean on, and now that I am making progress in my healing, I am filled with gratitude and praise for the living God who has redeemed my soul.

Written by a Youth MOVE Massachusetts Youth Advocate