Childhood struggles.

Charlotte

Ever felt like you're drowning in a sea of expectations, with no life jacket in sight? Or maybe you're a parent, watching your kid struggle, and feeling utterly helpless? Full disclosure: This isn't some preachy, "I've got it all figured out" kind of blog. Nope. This is me, spilling my guts about something that I wish I'd known when I was younger, something that I hope might help both struggling teens and well-meaning parents out there.

I grew up in a very traditional household where mental health was never really seen as "mental health" - it was more like, I had to suck it up and deal with it myself.

I still remember the days when I was crying alone in my room, after yet another argument with my parents. The stress was eating me alive. My body was screaming for help - Insomnias, missing periods for months on end, continuous daily headaches - but it felt like no one was listening. Or worse, they were listening but didn’t know how to deal with it.

Looking back, I tried so hard to hide my struggles from my parents as well. Why should I explain myself if they weren’t listening? I forced myself to put on a brave face, smiled when I wanted to scream, and pretended everything was fine. Why? Because in our household, showing vulnerability wasn't really an option. It was all about that "filial piety" - respect your elders, do as they say, and don't talk back. But let me tell you, bottling it all up? Not exactly a great coping mechanism.

I want parents to know that, we know you're trying your best. I understand that now, even if I or your children couldn't see it at the time. Especially if you're raising your first child, it's like being handed a complex puzzle with no instructions. You want the best for your kids, but sometimes the methods you choose might not be the right fit.

It took me years to understand why my parents did what they did. I knew they were trying their best. Especially if you're raising your first child, it's like being handed a complex puzzle with no instructions. You want the best for your kids, but sometimes the methods you choose might not be the right fit. Ultimately, we were all just operating from their own perspectives, our own experiences, without really trying to understand each others’. And yes, I thought so at the time too, why bother talking when you wouldn’t understand? I would continously keep it to myself to avoid further arguments or let downs. But here's the thing - we have our own minds, and our own unique experiences that you might never fully understand. And that's okay. It might be hard at first, but trust me, a little healthy communication goes a long way. I even recently repaired my broken relationship with my mom I never thought possible, and I haven’t felt such relief in so long. It really won't hurt to sit down and listen to your child or parents without judgment. You might be surprised at what you learn. Mental health is just as important as everyones’ physical health. Especially for parents, if your child is struggling, it doesn't mean you've failed. It means they need your support now more than ever.

To the teens out there: I know it's hard, but try to open up to your parents. They might not get it right away, but give them a chance. And if they still don't understand, remember that there are other resources available - school counselors, helplines, or trusted adults who can provide support.

Mental health isn't about being weak or strong. It's about being human. And we all need a little help sometimes, no matter how old we are or where we come from.

So, let's start talking. Let's break down these barriers and create a space where it's okay to not be okay. Because at the end of the day, we're all just trying to figure out this crazy thing called life.

Sam

From a young age, I sensed that my mental landscape was a bit different. The realisation didn't come suddenly, but moment by moment — confused glances from classmates, curious questions about my behaviour, and the unease in the air when I reacted anxiously to situations others found normal.

As I entered secondary school, these differences became impossible to ignore. Each raised eyebrow or puzzled look chipped away at me. I wasn't mature enough then to form my own perspective on these experiences. Instead, I absorbed others' reactions like a sponge, allowing their confusion and judgement to shape me. Their thoughts were what mattered.

It wasn’t just out in public, or my friends at school. I felt judged at home too. I was supposed to be the same as my family - but I knew I wasn’t. Those were the looks that hurt the most. They tried to hide it, but I could pick up on their confusion, and their frustration. The forced patience as they tried to accommodate me. I could feel the weight of expectation - the unspoken assumption that I should be just like them. But I wasn’t. Unfortunately they couldn’t just turn me on and off like a TV. I was “broken”. An error. I made parenting even harder than it already was. That brought a special kind of hurt.

As I grew up, I began to mask. I learnt to hide the “different” parts from others, including my family. I did it out of care for them. I knew the stress they were under, and I knew I was a problem they didn’t know how to solve. Exposing them to my true internal struggles wasn’t constructive, because they just didn’t know how to help. I was a puzzle that couldn’t be solved. It only stressed them out. It only brought the mood down. If I was going to feel down anyway, why would I spread that around for the sake of it?

Unfortunately, this meant my family and friends thought I was doing ok. They thought I’d got better. Grown out of it. But I’d just grown into it. Grown into hiding it. Grown into containing it. I’d understood this was my problem. And nobody could tackle it except myself.

This meant that when things inevitably didn’t go to plan, and I dipped, my family and friends were shocked. It would “come out of nowhere”. “I thought we were past this”. “I thought you were doing better”. “Why didn’t you say anything”. I’d want to respond. Explain why I was where I was. But I knew they couldn’t understand. What was the point? How could I make them understand a language they didn’t speak?

As I’ve grown older, I’ve learnt to accept a dynamic of misunderstanding. Accepting my story can’t be read by everybody. Even by those I really want to. That being said, there are those who speak your language. Who can access your story. And who want you to read theirs too.

To those still feeling like a misunderstood puzzle: your story matters. Your experiences are valid. And somewhere out there, someone is waiting to hear you. Understand you. Keep speaking your truth, even if it's just to yourself at first. The right listeners will come.