In 2020, my world fell apart. Within months, I lost my dog, my ex-boyfriend, a grandfather figure, and my great-grandfather—each to different causes, including old age, COVID-19, and gun violence. Every loss hit like a wave, pulling me under before I could catch my breath. Grief became relentless. I barely had time to process one death before another came crashing down.
The weight of it all was suffocating. I felt trapped in my pain, completely alone. Being three hours away from my family only made it worse—there were no familiar arms to collapse into, no comfort to ease the ache. I withdrew. My grades slipped, but I didn’t care. The world felt unbearable, and I was drowning in it. I was just trying to survive.
After about three weeks, my school noticed my failing grades and requested a meeting. I don’t remember much of that conversation—I think I blacked out from anger. Not because they were trying to help but because they wanted me to talk about it. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to explain. I just wanted the pain to stop. But looking back, I think they saw how much I was struggling. Maybe they noticed how my clothes hung looser on my body or how my face had thinned since my last student ID photo. Whatever it was, they reached out to the school’s counseling center.
That’s how I met Sherry.
Sherry, a campus counselor, wanted to meet once a week. I refused. I didn’t want help. But instead of pushing, she simply said, “You don’t have to tell me yes now, but if you want it—I’m here.”
Two weeks passed before I reached out.
That day, I had just walked out of class after my professor asked if I was okay. I didn’t respond—I just left. The moment I stepped outside, my body shut down. My chest tightened, my hands shook, and I sat frozen in place, crying and gasping for air. A panic attack. Unable to type, I used Siri to call my roommate, who stayed on the phone until I could breathe again.
That was when I realized I didn’t want to live like this anymore. And if I was going to keep living, something had to change.
That night, I emailed Sherry.
From then on, I met with her every week until I graduated in 2023. Some sessions were harder than others. Some days, I barely spoke. Other days, I cried the entire time. But every session, she showed up for me—offering a space where I could begin to process my grief, my pain, my isolation.
Looking back, I know that without access to campus mental health services, I might not be here today. The truth is, I could have taken my life. But I didn’t. Because my school had mental health resources in place, I got the support I needed to keep going.
That’s why fully funding campus mental health support isn’t just important—it’s necessary. The 2019 Mental Health Early Action on Campus Act must be fully funded yearly because mental health services save lives. Not just mine but the lives of countless students who struggle in silence, believing they have nowhere to turn.
I know I was one of the lucky ones. Many schools lack the funding to provide students with the care they need. Some students wait months for an appointment. Others are limited to just a handful of sessions. And too many never reach out at all—because they don’t believe help is available.
We can change that.
By fully funding mental health programs on college campuses, we ensure that students in crisis have access to professionals who can help them navigate their struggles. We create a system where no student has to suffer alone—where resources aren’t just available but actively encouraged.
This isn’t just an investment in health care or education. It’s an investment in human lives.
I am here today because of the support I received. Now, it’s time to ensure every student has that same chance.
Mental health services on college campuses save lives. Let’s fund them like they do.