We need to learn how to have conversations.

We need to learn how to ask for help.

Some of us struggle because we’re too proud to say,

“I need help.”

Life is difficult anyway.

How you live it doesn’t change just because you have money or because you don’t.

Life continues to happen whether you asked for it or not.

What defines you is what you do in the moment when it happens.

A lot of us don’t ask for help because it’s seen as weakness.

But it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

And sometimes, when we finally do ask for help,

we’re told to deal with it ourselves.

But if we could deal with it,

why would we be asking?

For the last couple of days, I’ve been reading story after story about young people who have taken their own lives.

No one truly knows the full story behind their departure.

We only see headlines.

We only see shock.

What I do understand is this:

Suicide does not have a color.

It does not have a tax bracket.

It does not have one specific background.

Pain does not discriminate.

I’ve also come to terms with something difficult:

If someone does not want help, they won’t receive it.

I know that personally.

There have been moments in my own life when I wanted to be left alone with my thoughts.

When outside voices felt louder than my own.

When I was taught to “deal with it” — whatever that meant.

When you grow up hearing “deal with it,”

you build armor.

You pretend everything is okay.

Until it’s not.

I started therapy young.

At first, I treated it like a joke.

Forty-five minutes wasn’t going to fix my life.

It didn’t.

Not until I chose to do the work.

I developed an eating disorder at ten or eleven years old.

My lowest weight was 68 pounds.

The adults around me questioned how I could do that to myself.

But they never questioned the words they used.

Words that replayed in my head.

Words that shaped how I saw myself.

Children believe what they hear.

The mind is powerful.

Sometimes dangerously so.

About a year ago, I started taking therapy seriously.

It isn’t magic.

It doesn’t erase pain.

But it forces accountability.

It forces you to reprogram yourself.

To stop punishing yourself for someone else’s ignorance.

To stop internalizing pain that was never yours to carry.

Sometimes it feels easier not to be here than to be here.

That’s a hard sentence to write.

But it’s honest.

And honesty is where healing begins.

I want to believe I have a circle that checks on me.

But sometimes I feel invisible.

I’m not always seen.

I’m not always heard.

And part of that is my responsibility.

I don’t like talking about myself.

If I’m having a bad day, I won’t say it.

I’ll internalize it.

But here’s what I’m learning:

A simple phone call matters.

A text that says, “How are you really?” matters.

Sometimes the strongest people are the ones who never say they’re struggling.

So check on them anyway.

Make the call.

Send the message.

Show up if you can.

Not because you’re responsible for saving someone.

But because connection can interrupt isolation.

And sometimes, that interruption is enough.