I’ve been thinking about mental health more than usual lately.

The news about Presley Gerber’s death really saddened me. Maybe because he was so young. Maybe because mental health is one of those things that can feel distant until, at some point, it isn’t.

I’ve always been a pretty closed book when it comes to my health.

Not intentionally, and not necessarily in a bad way. I’ve just never been someone who talks much about it. Even with the people closest to me, I tend to deal with things quietly and talk about them once I’m on the other side, if I talk about them at all.

So this is a little out of my comfort zone.

Senior year of college, I struggled with my mental health.

It was subtle.

I wasn’t falling apart in some obvious way. I was still going to class. Still seeing my friends. Still making plans, going out, laughing and doing all the things you’re supposed to be doing your last year of college.

From the outside, my life looked pretty normal.

But I wasn’t really myself.

I lost a lot of weight that year. I’ve always been naturally thin and have actually struggled to maintain and gain weight, so losing it was never intentional. Looking back, my body was showing that I wasn’t doing well before I was really able to say it myself.

Doctors noticed too. Medication was suggested to me more than once, but at the time, I didn’t want to go on it. I didn’t necessarily know what I needed.

I just knew something felt off.

The strange thing about struggling quietly is that life doesn’t necessarily stop.

You still answer texts.

You still get dressed.

You still go out on Friday night.

You still laugh.

You still show up.

Lately, I’ve noticed a few of those familiar signs again. The difference now is that I know myself better. I recognized when stress is affecting me, and instead of ignoring it, I’m paying attention.

Maybe that’s what getting older has given me more than anything – more awareness.

Mental health became real to me in a completely different way over three years ago.

My college boyfriend lost his former roommate to suicide. I was with him when he received the call.

I remember watching his face change before he dropped to the bathroom floor, bent over, and made this sound I still don’t really know how to describe.

It wasn’t normal crying.

It was this involuntary scream cry that I had never heard before and haven’t since.

Some moments stay with you whether you want them to or not. That is one of mine.

I had conversations with his roommate before. One night, we ended up sitting on a couch together, both high and actually talking. I remember leaving that conversation with this feeling that he was struggling. I couldn’t have told you exactly what was wrong, and I certainly couldn’t have known what would eventually happen.

But I remember telling my boyfriend that night when we went to bed, to check in on him more.

I still think about you.

I think about that conversation with him on the couch more than he probably ever would have imagined.

Not because I believe I could have changed what happened. I don’t. And not because I believe anyone who loved him was responsible for saving him.

It just taught me how little we sometime know about what another person is carrying.

And it taught me to listen.

Really listen.

I think that lesson has followed me into the way I’m trying to live my own life right now.

Lately, I’ve been much more intentional about the small things.

I’ve been reading more. Planning my days. Going home more. Spending more time with my family. Putting my phone down. Creating routines that make me feel grounded. Listening more when people talk.

None of it is groundbreaking.

But I’m starting to think that’s the point.

Maybe taking care of yourself isn’t always some enormous transformation.

Sometimes it’s the book instead of the phone.

The night at home when you need one.

The plan you make for yourself and actually keep.

The conversation where you listen instead of waiting for your turn to talk.

And maybe most importantly, it’s the people you choose to surround yourself with.

I really admire loving people.

I think I admire them more now than I ever have.

People who listen.

People who remember the little things.

People who check in.

People who genuinely want good things for other people.

People who show up.

People who make life feel lighter, not heavier.

I want to surround myself with those people.

But I also want to make sure I am one of those people.

I want to notice when someone I loved gets quiet. I want to ask questions twice. I want to listen when someone trusts me enough to tell me something they don’t tell everyone.

Because checking in on your people matters.

So does letting them check on you.

Maybe my advice is simple.

Go home when you need to. Call your family. Make the plan. Keep your routines.

Surround yourself with genuinely good, loving people.

Check on them. Tell them you love them.

And let them love you back.

I don’t think being intentional means having your entire life figured out.

I think it means paying attention.

To yourself.

To the people you love.

And to the life you’re building in all those seemingly insignificant moments in-between.

— 𝑂𝓃𝑒 𝐵𝓊𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒟𝒶𝓎