No one knew I was struggling.

In high school, I was the guy everyone came to when they needed a laugh. I had a gift for lightening the mood, for making the worst days a little easier for the people around me. I played sports, got decent grades, and had a great group of friends. From the outside, my life looked normal — even good. But on the inside, I was falling apart.

I don’t know when it really started. Maybe it was the pressure to perform. Maybe it was that I never learned how to talk about hard things. Or maybe it was just the way depression sneaks in quietly, without asking permission. What I do know is that, by the time I started college, something in me had cracked wide open.

At first, I blamed it on the adjustment. New place, new people, new expectations. But the sadness didn’t go away. I stopped going to class. I stayed in my dorm room for days at a time. I ate once a day, if that. I was drinking more than I ever had — not at parties, but alone, just to numb the thoughts.

I didn’t tell anyone what I was going through. I didn’t think I could. I didn’t “look depressed,” and I worried that if I tried to explain it, people would think I was being dramatic, or worse, just lazy. I felt like a disappointment. And then I started thinking maybe I wasn’t meant to be here at all.

I remember the night I came closest to ending it. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. I wasn’t crying or writing a goodbye note. I was just… done. The weight of everything felt unbearable, and I truly believed there wasn’t a future worth holding onto.

But instead of going through with it, I picked up my phone and wrote a message I never thought I’d send.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I texted to my roommate.

There was a long pause before he responded. Then he came into my room, sat down beside me, and didn’t say anything for a minute. When he finally did, it wasn’t anything complicated. He just said, “Okay. Let’s figure this out together.”

That moment changed everything.

With his help, I got connected to a counselor on campus. I started talking about things I had never said out loud before. It was terrifying — but also liberating. I learned how to name what I was feeling, and how to sit with it instead of trying to numb or outrun it.

During one of those early therapy sessions, my counselor told me about Project Semicolon. She explained the meaning behind the semicolon — how it’s used when a sentence could’ve ended, but didn’t. And how people who’ve struggled with mental health or suicidal thoughts have adopted it as a symbol of survival and hope.

I went home and looked it up. I spent hours reading stories on the website. Real people, just like me, who had hit bottom and found a way to keep going. For the first time, I didn’t feel broken. I felt understood. I felt seen. I remember thinking, “If they could survive what they’ve been through, maybe I can too.”

Now, a year later, I’m still learning how to manage my mental health. Some days are still hard. But they’re not hopeless anymore. I’ve found healthier ways to cope. I go to group therapy once a week, and I even helped organize a mental health awareness panel on campus last semester. I never thought I’d be the kind of person to speak out about this stuff — but here I am. And it’s one of the most meaningful things I’ve ever done.

And yeah — I got the semicolon tattoo. Not for attention. Not to make a statement. But to remind myself, every single day, that my story isn’t over. That I chose to stay. That I’m still writing.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re drowning in silence, please know you don’t have to go through it alone. You’re not weak for struggling. You’re not broken for hurting. And there are people — real, kind, imperfect people — who will sit with you in the dark until the light comes back.

I’m still here. And I’m finally learning how to live.