Lauryn L.
Photography by Emma Kraus
If you’re reading this, admitting you’re not okay can be really scary, and that’s alright.
I grew up as the overachieving, hyper-independent, first child stereotype. I rarely asked for help or support, even throughout my younger sister’s battle with cancer, my parents’ strained divorce, and a childhood ridden with familial mental illness and addiction, because I believed I didn’t need it–I could take care of myself, as I always did. As I navigated these years, I turned to what I could control to feel okay: I excelled in school and extracurriculars, and breezed through my social life as if nothing was awry.
Despite the years of discordance between my life at home and my life outside it, I was able to flourish and find my passions in the arts, psychology, and the sciences, and eventually discovered I wanted to become a doctor. I leaned into that dream, and looking back now, I realize part of me viewed medical school as an achievement that would mark the beginning of security for myself — when I would finally feel I had “made it.” However, as with many milestones in life, this wasn’t exactly the reality.
At the very start of medical school, I was elated. I was excited to learn, to finally acquire the skills I’d always dreamed of, to interact with patients, and to form relationships. But as the year went on, the things I’d once been so eager to learn about began to feel impossible, my hobbies grew entirely burdensome, and for the first time in my life, I could barely focus, so restless and anxious I wanted to crawl out of my skin. It felt like the flame in me had been extinguished, and it terrified me. Even in my darkest moments as a child, I had never felt this unlike myself. The pressure to keep up in medical school is immense, and I felt like I was treading water, just trying to survive, to appear okay in an environment where everyone around me seemed to be doing fine. And truthfully, I mostly did. Yet, for months, I suffered in silence, reverting back to my old ways, before the years of therapy that had taught me coping skills to undo my isolating habits.
When I took over as BU chapter president of IfYoureReadingThis, I became more intimately familiar with the stories of vulnerability and similar experiences shared by my peers and others across the nation. It was this, along with the gentle encouragement of my wonderful partner, that pushed me to finally prioritize my own mental health and seek help. It’s almost ironic that I was so passionate about reducing the stigma of mental illness for others, but still felt undeserving of that compassion and support myself.
I feel incredibly proud to be a part of this organization and to tell my story alongside so many other brave individuals. I share my story because I want you to know that even if you have done work in therapy, educated yourself about the ins and outs of mental health, or, like me, aspire to a career helping others through these kinds of hardships, recognizing those feelings within yourself might still feel extremely scary, and that’s okay. It did for me, too.
I want you to know that you’re not alone, and that after I gave myself the same grace I believe everyone deserves and sought help, my life changed forever for the better. Today, in no small part due to treatment, I am content, and most days, happy. My passions are no longer stifled, and I again feel deeply fulfilled in my pursuits and hobbies. The first day I felt joy again, I cried tears of relief. I had forgotten what that felt like and hadn’t realized how long I had been surviving without it. Like anyone, I still have hard days, but they’re much fewer and farther in between, and don’t feel nearly as all-consuming.
If any of this resonates with you, I want you to know help is there when you’re ready. No matter how resilient you may be, remember that it is a strength, not a weakness, to admit you’re not okay. Healing is often a non-linear process; it will likely take time and be imperfect, and that’s alright. Nevertheless, you deserve support, too. You deserve to feel good, too. No matter how hard it may be, I believe in you.
Lauryn L., Boston University
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