The Weight You Can’t See
“Every day, students walk into school carrying a weight that doesn’t show up in attendance records, report cards, or classroom conversations. We say “I’m good” when realistically we’re not. We laugh when we feel like crying. We act like everything’s fine because we’ve been taught to keep it moving no matter what’s going on inside.”
Some mornings, I wake up with butterflies in my stomach, already bracing for the day ahead. I eat waffles for breakfast, a banana, a cup of tea, vitamins, and a boiled egg–nothing special, just the same thing as every other day–but I’m barely awake, let alone ready. I get dressed in silence, trying not to wake anyone up, and head to school with barely enough sleep. On the train, I zone out–not because I’m calm, but because I’m already exhausted from pretending I’m okay. At school, I smile at teachers, laugh with friends, and keep it pushing. But inside, it feels like I’m walking around with a backpack full of bricks–stress, doubt, fear, pressure–all weighing me down. I stay quiet not because I don’t want to talk, but because I’m scared that if I start, I won’t know how to stop. I don’t want to be the reason someone else feels heavy too.
Still, silence doesn’t always protect others–it just isolates us, leaving us trapped in our own heads, drowning in our own doubts. And honestly, there are days when we feel like we’re not good enough. We feel like we’re constantly falling short, like we’re not showing up the way we should. The weight of trying to be someone we’re not, of pretending everything's okay, leaves us questioning if we even know who we are anymore. It feels like we’re letting everyone down–even if they don’t see it. But it’s not just about school or emotions–it runs deeper than that.
The truth is, living in the Bronx means carrying weight that nobody sees. Generational struggles, financial strain, and the constant fight to survive in a world that doesn’t seem to care. It’s the kind of weight that doesn’t come with a break. Rent is due, food is scarce, and we keep our heads down, pushing forward even when it feels like we’re drowning. There’s no time for weakness, no space for emotions. We carry our burdens silently because that’s what survival demands. But in that silence, we lose pieces of ourselves.
That’s why I’m writing this. Because maybe someone out there feels the same way–and maybe this piece can be the conversation we’re all too scared to start.
Every day, students walk into school carrying a weight that doesn’t show up in attendance records, report cards, or classroom conversations. We say “I’m good” when realistically we’re not. We laugh when we feel like crying. We act like everything’s fine because we’ve been taught to keep it moving no matter what’s going on inside.
Many of us are living in an environment where it’s normal to struggle, but rare to speak about it. Some of us are working jobs after school, taking care of siblings, or dealing with things at home that would break most adults. And yet, we're expected to sit in class like nothing’s wrong. To take notes, past tests, and keep up with everyone else.
But how do you focus on math when your mind is stuck on the fight you had with your parents last night? How do you write an essay even if you haven’t eaten all day or when anxiety is clawing at your chest and you can’t breathe right? These are the kinds of questions that don’t get asked in classrooms–but they live in the heads of students every single day. Everyday in the Bronx something's always happening. Whether it involves community or personal struggles. Maybe your building caught fire–like the one in Fordham last month. Maybe you're riding the 6 train and see a homeless person wrapped in a blanket, at the Longwood Avenue station. Maybe you’re dealing with a parent that drinks too much, or never talks about the depression that runs in the family.
One student I spoke to shared their experience in 8th grade and losing a close friend in high school. Back in 8th grade, one student was going through a tough time. School felt impossible–like their mind had completely shut off from the work being assigned. They’d joke with friends, saying, “This year is really hard,” but beneath the surface, they were silently struggling. Things became so overwhelming that they even considered “purposefully getting themselves sick” just to escape the pressure. When they finally opened up about how they were feeling, they “broke down crying.” Crying wasn’t something they did often, but speaking to an adult they trusted reminded them that “someone is there to support you when needed.”
At the same time, someone they deeply cared about–a–close friend–suddenly vanished from everyone’s lives. While they had an idea why their friend pulled away, the absence still hit hard. It became one of the main reasons for the “restless nights earlier on.” That pain brought out what they described as “a secret version of me that only comes out when no one’s watching,” a version that reflected the emotional and mental support they wished they had. In those moments, they would isolate–turning away from social media and friends, listening to music, and spending hours “deep in thought… just plain thinking.”
The system wasn't built with our full realities in mind. Teachers might notice when we’re late or not participating, but they don’t always see what’s behind it. They don’t see the nights we couldn’t sleep or the panic attacks we’re hiding behind a hoodie. And honestly, a lot of us have gotten so good at masking it that even our closest friends don’t always know when we’re hurting.
One student shared their experience in Junior year. Junior year was one of the hardest times for them. They had been carrying trauma for years, and then on top of that, they went through sexual harassment at a young age. They told me, “Some days, I couldn’t even make it to school. Other days, I showed up in tears, just trying to get through the day.” The pain was heavy, but no one could see it.
When the student came to seek support there were some teachers who truly showed up for them, listening when they had no one else to turn to. But opening up wasn't easy. They had always been taught to keep their struggles to themselves, to handle the stress on their own. When they finally opened up to their family, it didn’t go the way they hoped. The student said, “They thought I was just making excuses.” Even though the relationship with their family is okay now, that moment still sticks with them, reminding them how hard it can be for others to see the pain you’re going through.
This article isn’t just about mental health–it’s about what goes unsaid. It’s about the kid in the back of the class who never talks. The girl who seems fine but breaks down in the bathroom during lunch. The student who always cracks jokes, but goes home to chaos and silence. This is about all of us who’ve learned to cope quietly, because being vulnerable sometimes feels like a luxury we can’t afford.
There was a time I thought being strong meant staying quiet. That if I kept everything inside and just pushed through, I was doing the right thing. I used to think talking about your emotions made you a weak person–or that nobody would care even if you did open up. But I’ve learned that silence doesn’t make you strong. It just builds walls between you and the people who might actually want to help.
Now, I see strength in vulnerability. I see the power in being honest about what you’re feeling–even when it’s messy. I still struggle with seeking help, because old habits are hard to break. But I’ve come to understand that healing starts when you stop pretending. When you give yourself the permission to feel, to speak, and to be human.
One last student shared their experience in their senior year. This year brought one of their lowest points–the death of their grandmother. She wasn’t just a grandparent, but a mother figure, someone they had grown up with more than their own mom. Returning to school after her passing was a struggle. “I would go home and cry,” they shared, yet each day they showed up, pretending everything was okay.
Senior year was supposed to be a time to focus, but instead, it felt like everything was slipping. They kept their own pain hidden, not wanting others to feel guilty for helping. “That’s why I keep most of my problems to myself,” they said.
But grief didn’t start there. In 2020, their best friend died from brain cancer. They hadn’t known she was sick. “As a best friend you should know if your friends are okay,” they said. After her passing, they weren’t just sad–they were angry. Angry at themselves. Angry at the doctors. The pain of not knowing, and imagining what she went through, still keeps them up at night.
Despite everything, they’re learning to carry the weight while still moving forward. Their faith reminds them that even when things don’t make sense, there’s a path through the pain. “Whatever God puts you through, he leads you through it.” And with each day, they’re still finding the strength to believe that healing is possible–even in the midst of heartbreak.
These stories aren’t rare. They’re the everyday reality for some many teens–especially in neighborhoods where mental health support is unfunded, therapy is stigmatized, and families are just trying to survive. We’re told to “toughen up” or “get over it,” but what happens even if you're already at your breaking point? Sometimes, survival mode becomes so constant that you forget how to stop and just breathe.
But imagine if schools and communities started to shift that. Mental health shouldn’t be a privilege. It should be part of every school’s culture. That means not just talking about it once a year during Mental Health Awareness Week, but creating real, ongoing spaces where students feel safe to speak without judgement. It means training teachers not only to recognize the signs of burnout, trauma, and depression, but to act on them. It means encouraging vulnerability in ways that show students it’s okay to ask for help, even when it feels impossible.
In some communities, especially where cultural stigmas around mental health still run deep, it can be even harder to open up. In many West Indian, African, and Latinx households, for example, mental health isn’t always talked about openly. Crying or talking about anxiety is a sign of weakness or disrespect. We’re told to pray, to be strong, to “stop making a scene.” But strength doesn’t mean silence. True strength is knowing when to ask for help, even when your culture tells you not to. And though it’s hard, each time we break that silence, it becomes easier for the next person to do the same.
When schools acknowledge these invisible battles, things start to change. That might mean having mental health professionals who reflect the backgrounds and lived experiences of the students they serve. It could mean starting advisory groups where mental health is regularly discussed, or making sure students know where to go when they need support without fear of being judged. Little changes, like offering a calm room or giving students an anonymous way to check in emotionally, can have big effects. We need to remember mental health is not just about fixing what’s broken, but nurturing what’s hurting.
What also helps is seeing representation. When students see educators, counselors, or guest speakers who share their identities and talk openly about their struggles, it creates a bridge. It shows us that healing is possible and that we’re not alone. Stories of resilience matter, especially when they come from people who’ve been where we are. I’ve realized how powerful it is to hear from others who have faced similar challenges–because it reminds you that you’re not fighting your battles alone.
But the biggest shift comes when we stop pretending to be alright.
When we stop pushing through everything in silence and start checking in with each other. Imagine if more of us asked real questions and gave real answers. Imagine if schools taught us coping skills the same way they teach algebra. Imagine if your day started not just with a to-do list, but with a moment to breathe, to journal, to just be. These things matter. They give us the space we need to be our full selves. And it’s not just students who need that space–teachers and everyone else do, too. What if, before jumping into the hustle of the day, we all took a few minutes to reflect, to write, to check in with ourselves? Whether at school, work, or home, a small pause like that could shift the energy of an entire environment. It would remind everyone–regardless of their role–that mental health isn’t a side note. It’s part of the work.
I’m not writing this because I have all the answers–I’m writing this because I’m still figuring things out. Some days, I feel strong and hopeful. Other days, I feel like I’m unravelling at the seams. But I’m starting to understand that I don’t have to carry everything by myself. None of us do. The simple truth is, the more we share our burdens, the lighter they become.
If you’re reading this–whether you’re a student, staff member, or someone else–and you see yourself in any part of this story, I want you to know: your pain is valid. Your feelings matter. You are not invisible. There is no shame in struggling. There is no weakness in shedding a tear. The real shame lies in a world that teaches us to hide what hurts instead of healing it through honesty.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up with those same nerves and the same breakfast, but maybe I’ll feel a little less burdened, knowing that sharing what I carry–no matter how heavy it feels–makes the weight lighter. And maybe, just maybe, the simple act of showing up as my true, imperfect self will inspire someone else to do the same. We’re not meant to face this world alone, and the more we let ourselves be vulnerable, the stronger we become together.
So let’s start shifting that. Let’s create a culture where we can show up as our full selves–messy, complicated, emotional, and human. Let’s stop waiting for someone else to speak up and be brave enough to be the first. Because the moment you open up, you give someone else permission to do the same. Sometimes, the weight we carry doesn’t just belong to us–it belongs to a generation that’s been told to be silent, to be strong, to be okay when we’re breaking. But if we carry it together, maybe it doesn’t have to be so heavy.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please know that you’re not alone. Talk to a trusted adult, a school counselor, a friend–or reach out to a mental health support line like the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Help is real. Hope is real. And so is your worth.
You matter. You always have. You always will.
Take care of yourself. Be gentle with your heart. And whatever you’re carrying today, know that healing is possible. Peace and blessings always.