Anelisa
Mental Health
South Africa

I don’t remember the exact moment when everything fell apart, but I remember the feeling. I was still a teenager when my aunt, the woman who raised me, passed away. She had taken me in when I was young—loved me like her own, gave me a sense of home when my own mother didn’t. When she died, I lost not just a caregiver, but my safe place. I felt… completely alone.

My mother didn’t come back into my life after my aunt passed. I remember feeling abandoned all over again. She had left me once—and now, she was emotionally gone, even though she was still alive. That kind of emotional neglect—it cuts deep. I was grieving and scared, but I didn’t have anyone to talk to, no space to cry, no one who asked me if I was okay. So, I just stopped feeling. I told myself to stay quiet. To survive.

As the years went by, the silence grew louder inside me.

I had to become an adult fast. I had to act like everything was fine, like I was strong. But inside, I carried this heavy sadness, this quiet feeling that I wasn’t worth much. I became a mother. And I loved my daughter—more than anything. But even then, the loneliness didn’t leave. I started to believe that maybe the pain I carried would ruin her, too.

I had this terrifying thought once: What if we both just disappeared? That maybe it would be better—for both of us—if we weren’t here anymore. That way, I wouldn’t have to carry this pain, and she wouldn’t have to grow up feeling the kind of hurt I had. It felt like the only escape. The only way to protect her.

But then I saw her. Just looking at me—trusting me. Smiling, even when I felt broken. And something in me cracked open.

I thought, No. I can’t do this to her. She needs me to stay. She deserves a mother who tries, even when it’s hard.

That was the moment I reached out for help.

I remember walking into that room for the first time—nervous, ashamed, unsure if I even deserved help. But the woman I met didn’t judge me. She listened. For the first time in years, someone listened to me, not just the words I said—but everything I wasn’t saying. She helped me understand that what I went through was real. That I had been grieving alone. That I needed to feel in order to heal.

It wasn’t easy. Healing never is. There were days I wanted to disappear again. But I kept coming back. I kept talking. And slowly, I stopped hiding from my own story.

I started to see that my past didn’t make me unworthy. That the silence I grew up in didn’t have to define me. I began to speak up—for myself, for my daughter, for the little girl inside me who never got to cry when her world collapsed.

Now, I’m still a mother. But I’m also a survivor.

I show up for my daughter, not just physically, but emotionally. I tell her she’s loved. I hug her longer. I ask her how she feels. Because I know what it’s like when no one does.

And I show up for others too. I speak about mental health, about the dark thoughts no one wants to admit they’ve had. I tell people that it’s okay to break, as long as you know you can rebuild. That it’s okay to cry. That asking for help is one of the bravest things you’ll ever do.

I’m not the same girl who kept everything inside. I’m stronger now. Not because I’ve erased my pain—but because I’ve faced it.

And if you’re reading this, and you’ve ever felt like giving up… please know you’re not alone. I’ve been there. I thought the world would be better off without me. But I was wrong.

My daughter needed me. The world needed me. And maybe it needs you too.

So please—stay.