The Cost of Hiding in Plain Sight
Ten years. That’s how long it takes, on average, for someone battling mental illness to seek help. I know this not just as a fact, but as my reality. For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt a little different, as though something set me apart from others. A feeling I couldn’t name, yet one I couldn’t seem to ignore.
I remember first encountering the words “mental health” and “mental illness” in my grade six classroom. Our school guidance counsellor walked into the room with a stack of questionnaires. She asked us to answer each question truthfully and assured anonymity for all of us.
The questionnaire read:
In the past two weeks, how often have you felt little interest or pleasure in doing things?
Felt down, depressed, or hopeless?
Had trouble sleeping or slept too much?
Struggled with your appetite, eating too little or too much?
Felt bad about yourself, had trouble concentrating, or even had thoughts of hurting yourself?
It was that day in grade six, as I read through each question, that I started to realize how much of what I had been feeling could finally be put into words. However, it wasn’t until years later that I began to reach out for help and support.
In the years that followed, I became—or so I thought—an expert at hiding. I masked a deep darkness inside of me with constant overachievement, a schedule packed so tightly there was no room for distraction, and a list of ever-growing strategies to appear “fine.”
We weren’t yet living in a world where we were taught the language to explain what I was experiencing, so I buried the emotions as deep as I possibly could. I spent my adolescence running from any form of emotion, afraid that if I stopped for even a moment, the carefully curated version of me would simply crack wide open.
Eventually, there came a time when I could no longer outrun the truth. Admitting myself into an emergency crisis centre remains one of the hardest days of my life, yet it was a turning point. It was the first time I allowed myself to confront the parts of me I’d spent years trying to silence.
With time and space, I slowly began giving myself permission to unpack the years of shame and silence. I opened up to my circle about living with depression and anxiety, built an incredible support system, and began discovering the power in reclaiming my experience. Still, even as I healed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something remained unsolved.
I was overwhelmed by a familiar sense of shame and deep fear. Sitting across from my therapist, I admitted I’d spent the past decade caught in my own chicken-and-egg dilemma—was my depression and anxiety the root cause, or were they symptoms of undiagnosed ADHD? To me, that conversation will always mark the moment I truly found myself. Entering 2025 with a diagnosis of ADHD, I feel, for the first time, as though the weight of the world has finally been lifted. After 30 years of navigating a world that constantly overstimulated me, I am finally receiving the care I have long needed.
While I often remind others that mental illness recovery isn’t a linear process, I am often guilty of forgoing my own advice. Last year served as a much-needed reminder that my journey is no exception.
I could easily stay stuck in shame, judging myself for taking ten years to ask for help and another ten to advocate for more. That said, there’s no room for healing in that space. Instead, I continually choose to share my story, hoping that no one else has to see a statistic become their truth.
Ask for help, I promise it’s not worth the wait.