Let all your darkness see the light.

When I was a teenager there was a girl in my English literature class called Helen. She was intelligent with a quirky sense of humor. We all knew her as funny and easily stressed; but in a comedic way that she often liked to share.

One day, as we took turns speaking to the class in preparation for our entrance exams, I watched in surprise as Helen fled the class in an anxious state, saying, “I can’t do this.” We were left sitting in a circle with pens on notepads.

All of our eyes turned to our teacher, Tom, who pursed his lips, 

“Shall I go see if she’s okay?” I asked.

“Please carry on, I’ll go”, said Tom.

Helen came back later and sat down with us in the circle, head down. As the class ended, and everyone left the room, I said something like, “Of course you can do it, Helen, you can do anything you put your mind to.”

She half-smiled, grateful but defeated, as she left. 

When I was halfway out the door, Tom said, “You know, it’s not that easy – when a person has depression, it isn’t as simple.”

I stopped, surprised, and nodded. No one had spoken to me about an adult topic such as depression before. Later in my life, I would come to know it too. But at that point, my mind was blank; something told me that while I couldn’t yet understand what she was going through, it was important.

Years later, after we’d all gone to university and started our jobs, we received the terrible news that Helen had taken her life.

I wondered afterward about where her life had taken her and what challenges she’d faced.

When she’d been with us, she may have been anxious, but she’d been happy too. We were a pretty decent year group, in one of the best schools in the world, and I remember her laughing often.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder all those years later – if we’d failed her and what else I could have done.  What if we hadn’t joked along with her? What if we’d insisted on supporting her better? On seeking out what was really there? 

But, we were teens ourselves.

And in those days mental health wasn’t as advanced and mainstream, it was definitely a taboo subject. A hidden grey box that we didn’t go near. 

When someone asked how are you? They meant physically. Not emotionally. 

And they certainly weren’t expecting authenticity. We had all learned somehow that being vulnerable and authentic was synonymous with being weak. 

In some fields and groups, we still think this. We think it with men, especially, (who incidentally, have the highest suicide rate) sometimes we think it as parents, and we think it in the workplace – in certain professions more than others. 

Take medicine and mental health.

For those in the medical-related professions, there is even more stress to contend with and more human emotions to work with.  

• Rates of depression and anxiety in doctors are not only higher than in the general population but also more than in other professionals (Gerada, 2018).
  

• Healthcare professionals, including mental health practitioners, appear to be at elevated risk for suicide compared to the general population. (Corcoran, 2022).
  

But the truth is that depression, suicide, and mental health-related stigma, aren’t just adult topics. Especially in these post-covid times.  Suicide is the third leading cause of death among 15–29-year-olds. 

And in the US, there is a frighteningly fast increase in the suicide rate among Black adolescents. From 2007 to 2020, the suicide rate rose 144% among Black 10 – 17 year-olds.

Of course, it’s not just depression (although those who are depressed are 20x more likely to take their life), it’s also anxiety, trauma, and systemic and political factors at play. It’s all of it.

But, young, old, whatever our race, gender, or job, we’re all human, and as we know, that means having a range of complex experiences and emotions that we have to take care of as much as we take care of our bodies. 

I have no idea if Helen was receiving any mental health support. 

Nor do I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of frequent high-risk cases – but I do know that mental health professionals are stretched at the same time that we’re experiencing more anxiety and depression. 

(A reason why I wanted to work at Upheal; to support those who support others.)

And yet, given that we’re all feeling human beings, anyone dealing with these topics should be supported and encouraged because they are likely to be at more risk of suicide themselves.

So how to tell the signs? How to predict who needs help most?

Since it can affect all of us, building up a culture in which we can share our emotional landscapes with authenticity and without fear of shame or judgment is an essential starting point whoever and wherever we are. 

We must lead with respect, acceptance, and support, rather than avoidance or shame, in any age, group, or profession.

The sooner we begin to care for our mental health, the better. The more we learn to identify, talk about, and express our feelings, the better. 

I wish I had known how to speak to Helen differently, and I think it’s about time we include mental health components in our education systems.

Helen never spoke to us about her struggles, probably for the same reasons that medical and mental health professionals refrain from discussing their mental health – no one wants to be perceived as weak or different or incapable of their role.

To do that means learning to work with our emotions when we’re young and on a very large scale. We’re not perfect, despite what selfies on social media platforms might make us believe. Those same platforms can be used for mutual support and real expression. For reaching out and finding our tribes. We can do hard things, as Glennon Doyle has said. Our pain can be healed when we tend to it. 

So much could be improved in the world if we made it our mission to understand our traumas and support our capacity for regulation and self-healing.

If we went out of our way to be genuine and kind; to ourselves and others.

“Let all your darkness see the light”, a great teacher of mine always used to say. 

And it’s true. When we share, we shed; the heaviness, the loneliness, the I’m not-enough-ness, the helplessness – and we open the space to receive, perhaps for just long enough to make a difference to someone’s life.