12/14/2025
I’m Mentally Ill — and People Never Expect Me to Say That
People are always a little caught off guard when I say I’m mentally ill. Especially when I say it calmly. Casually. Without shame. There’s usually a pause. A look. Sometimes a comment about how I seem “fine” or “put together.” What they really mean is that I don’t look like the version of mental illness they’re comfortable with.
For some reason, people expect mental illness to be loud and obvious. They expect it to look like complete dysfunction. Not someone who shows up. Not someone who works, leads, builds things, parents, creates, or carries responsibility. Saying it out loud forces people to confront something uncomfortable: mental illness doesn’t cancel competence, and being high-functioning doesn’t mean you aren’t struggling.
I live with mental illness and I live a full life - to the best of my ability. Those things exist at the same time. For a long time, I believed admitting that would be used against me—and sometimes it was. It got labeled as instability. As weakness. As something that needed to be controlled for other people’s comfort. Hiding it meant constantly monitoring myself, swallowing emotions, and shrinking parts of who I am. That kind of silence takes a toll.
I threw the towel of shame away in 2014.
Mental health is only supported when it’s quiet and convenient. The moment it affects energy, mood, boundaries, or capacity, the grace tends to disappear. A lot of people say they support mental health, but far fewer are willing to sit with what it actually looks like in real life.
I talk about it because silence keeps stigma alive. I know how many people are functioning while barely holding it together, convinced they’re the only ones because everyone else looks “fine.” I also know how damaging it is to believe that needing help—or naming what’s happening—means you’re failing.
Being mentally ill doesn’t mean I lack discipline or resilience. It doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful for my life. It doesn’t mean I haven’t worked hard or built meaningful things. It means my brain, like any other part of my body, has limits and vulnerabilities that need care.
I’m not sharing this to be brave or inspirational. I’m sharing it because honesty matters—and shame has never healed anyone. If my openness makes people uncomfortable, that says more about how we talk about mental illness than it does about me.
No one should feel embarrassed for naming their reality. No one should have to hide to be respected. Mental illness is common, complicated, and real. Pretending otherwise only makes it harder for people to survive.
