The day I got diagnosed with anxiety and depression during my sophomore year of college, my world felt impossibly small. Sitting in my dorm room, staring at the ceiling I’d decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars as a hopeful freshman, I wondered how I’d gone from being the “bright future” kid to someone who could barely make it to morning classes.
High school had been different. I was the overachiever – student council president, honor roll student, captain of the debate team. Everyone had such high expectations for my college years. “You’re going to change the world,” they’d said. Nobody prepared me for the possibility that some days, just changing out of my pajamas would feel like climbing Mount Everest.
The panic attacks started during midterms. At first, I thought it was just normal college stress. Everyone struggles with the transition, right? But when I found myself hiding in bathroom stalls between classes, trying to remember how to breathe, I knew something was wrong. The worst part wasn’t even the anxiety itself; it was feeling like I was disappointing everyone who had believed in me.
My roommate Emma was the first to notice. She found me one night sitting in our shared shower, fully clothed, water running, having what I now know was a major panic attack. Instead of freaking out, she sat down next to me, getting her favorite sweater soaked in the process, and simply said, “I’ve been there. Let’s get help together.” What keeps me hopeful now isn’t the medication, though it helps. It’s not even the therapy sessions, though they’re teaching me tools I wish I’d learned years ago. What really keeps me going is discovering that vulnerability isn’t weakness.
When I finally opened up to my friends about my struggles, I found out that the girl who seems to have it all together in my psychology class also deals with anxiety. The star basketball player? He has a therapist, too. tackle each day by celebrating small victories. Today, I made it to my 8am class. Yesterday, I raised my hand during discussion. Last week, I went to a study group without checking the exit routes first. These might seem like trivial achievements to some, but to me, they’re evidence that I’m still fighting, still moving forward.
My Instagram feed used to be full of perfect moments, parties, achievements, smiling faces. Now I’m learning to share the real stuff, too. Recently, I posted about my mental health journey. The response was overwhelming. Messages flooded in from high school classmates, distant cousins, even my tough-as-nails former math teacher, all sharing their own stories of struggle and survival.
At twenty, I’m realizing that hope isn’t about having everything figured out. It’s about acknowledging that some days will be harder than others, and that’s okay. It’s about understanding that being human means being beautifully imperfect.
When I look at those glow-in-the-dark stars now, they remind me of something different, that even in darkness, there’s always light to be found. You just have to be brave enough to look up and see it.
