Dear Reader,

There’s a journal in my room—its pages worn, the ink smudged in places from tears I never let myself cry. On its white, unseemingly hollow cover, there’s no title. No hints of what lies inside. But if you opened it, you’d find letters I never sent. They were written to no one, yet to everyone—words scratched out to an imaginary friend, to the person I wished I could be, to the stars when they felt impossibly far away, and others when they felt a bit too close.

Some of those letters start with “Why?” Others begin with “Help.” And somewhere in between those two words is the rawest truth of survival. Not the kind romanticized in stories, where the hero emerges unscathed, but the kind where existing through pain feels like its own war—a quiet fight that no one else may ever see.

Oxford English Dictionary defines survival as “the act of continuing to live or exist, especially in the face of danger or difficulty.” But how do you define this seemingly simple word when the danger itself is invisible? When the battlefield is your own mind?

For so many of us, the world feels darker lately. The weight of new challenges—political, social, personal—has settled over us like a heavy fog. It’s hard to see the light when you’re convinced it doesn’t exist. I know what it’s like to feel trapped in that fog, to mistake the night sky for an empty abyss. I know what it’s like to wake up and wonder, “What’s the point of fighting when it feels like the stars have gone out, when all light seems lost?”

But here’s the truth: the stars never left. You are the light.

Mental health is not just about surviving; it’s about fighting for a life worth living. It’s about rejecting the lie that your pain defines you. It’s about daring to imagine a future where you aren’t just existing—you’re thriving.

And that fight? It’s not easy. It’s messy. It’s nights spent writing letters you’ll never send, pouring out every ounce of doubt, fear, and anger. It’s staring down the pages of your life and refusing to let the darkness win. It’s about realizing that survival is an act of rebellion against despair.

There was a time when I thought survival was all I could hope for. But survival is not the end of the story. It’s the beginning. When I finally looked back at those letters, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before: hope, hidden between the lines.

I saw the moment I scribbled, “I’m tired,” but followed it with, “But I’m still here.” I saw the moment I begged the stars for a sign, not realizing that my very act of asking was proof of my strength. And I saw the moment I wrote, “I feel like a failure,” only to end the page with, “But tomorrow, I’ll try again.”

To anyone reading this who feels like they’re living in a dark period of time—who feels like the fight isn’t worth it—I need you to know this: the fight for your future is the most important battle you’ll ever face. And you don’t have to do it alone.

Seek out the light, even if it feels distant. Reach out to someone—a friend, a stranger, a counselor. Write letters you may never send. Pour out your pain in ink, knowing that it doesn’t have to define you. And most importantly, never forget that you shine.

The new administration, the shifting world, the heaviness we carry—they can’t take away the fact that you’re here. That you matter. That your story is still being written.

And yet, even now, I write again—letters I know may never reach their intended destination, but still, I write. This time, my pen moves with a different purpose, each word an ask to those who hold the power to create real change. I write to policymakers, to the ones who can shape the future of mental health initiatives. To our federal administration, regulatory agencies, senators, and legislators, I send my stories, my plea. Not for me alone, but for everyone who needs their voice heard.

I’ve shared my struggles countless times—letters sent, emails composed, testimonies given—hoping that someone, somewhere, will listen. Hoping that my words will land in the right hands and spark change. But sometimes, it feels like I’m shouting into an empty room, waiting for an echo that never comes. Still, I send my words out into the void, because silence is a luxury we can’t afford, not now, not ever.

But writing is only one part of the fight. Words must become action, and action must become change. That’s why I’ve taken this fight beyond the pages of my journal, beyond letters and speeches, into the rooms where decisions are made—rooms where, for too long, youth voices have been dismissed as background noise.

As a member of the World Health Organization’s Youth Council, I have sat in meetings where the stakes have never been higher. I have spoken alongside those shaping the future of healthcare, policy, and equity, and I have seen firsthand how the perspectives of young people are essential. At just 17, I am the youngest in these conversations, but that has never diminished the weight of my words.

I have been in conversations with Dr. Tedros, the Director-General of the WHO, where we have made it clear that youth are not just here to be heard—we are here to make a difference.

I think back to the letters I never sent—the cries for help, the words whispered into the void—and I realize that I am no longer writing to the stars alone. I am writing to the world, to those who have the power to create real, systemic change. And this time, I know someone is listening.

What will happen next? Will the voices of those suffering be acknowledged? Will our stories be heard and understood? I don’t know, and I guess that’s okay. The uncertainty weighs heavy on my heart. But even in the darkness, I hold on to the belief that change is possible—that, somehow, something will give.

So, I write again. Maybe this time, someone will listen. Maybe this time, the letters will spark the action we so desperately need. I don’t know what will come of it. But I’ll keep writing. Keep fighting. Keep hoping.

And when the day comes that we see the change we’ve asked for, I’ll be here to share it with you. Together, we’ll celebrate the future we fought for, because this fight isn’t just mine. It’s ours. And the light we’ve been searching for has been shining in each of us all along.

This is not a letter I’ll leave unsent. It’s my reminder to you, and to myself, that we’re not alone in this fight. Because fighting for your life isn’t about erasing the pain—it’s about building a future where your light can shine brighter than ever before.

So, dear reader, pick up that pen. Fight for your life. The stars are waiting, always have, always will.

Sincerely,

Someone Who’s Still Fighting, Too