Instead of forcing myself to find help, one day in the cafeteria, when I was in the ninth grade and was being bullied, help found me.
* * *
That moment of kindness—from someone I barely knew—saved my life.
* * *
Minutes earlier, as I walked around looking for a place to sit—feeling the familiar pressure in my heart telling me I could no longer join the group of friends who had decided to cast me out, trying to tune out mean looks and comments that told me I wasn’t welcome—I could not have felt more alone. But lo and behold, the next thing I knew this friendly girl waved me over to where she was sitting, basically taking me in and letting me eat lunch with her.
* * *
Suddenly, I didn’t have to be alone anymore. To this day, she and I still eat lunch together. Life, slowly but surely, began to improve.
* * *
By the end of my high school sophomore year, there were other friends who’d taken me under their wings, too, who have been there for me ever since. Instead of mocking me for the music and media I love, my friends embrace me for being who I am—quirks and all—and for my love of artists whose lyrics remind me of myself. This included Gaga, of course, but also Sia, Lana Del Rey, and Eminem. Now I can talk about the shows I watch—like Bones, New Girl, and Grey’s Anatomy—whose characters are quirky, like me, as they go through their trials and tribulations and make it through successfully.
Through my own trials, I learned that I’m stronger than I could ever have once believed and that, even with everything I’ve been through, it was possible to make myself whole again. The toughest lesson was learning that I could ask for help when needed and that I shouldn’t be afraid to do so.
A little kindness from someone else goes a long way. So much so that, in turn, I learned that I could take all of this pain that had the power to make me feel so broken and put it toward something more positive. True! When I signed up to volunteer at the local humane society, I was amazed at how much stress could be relieved by taking care of living beings who can’t take care of themselves and need just as much help, if not more, than I do.
No longer do I feel ashamed of my surgery or any parts of my story, no matter how embarrassing or painful. Not that I want to walk around with my scar on my sleeve. But if one person can relate and my talking about it helps them, even a little bit, the pain won’t be in vain.
Yes, words do have power over our lives. To anyone struggling, my words are simple:
Thank you, Kirah, for being honest about your struggles and showing strength in the face of adversity. We cannot let other people define us with their negative words. No matter what anyone says, remember that you are strong, brave, and beautiful. If you or someone you know is experiencing bullying, please reach out to an adult you trust and tell them how you’re feeling. For more resources on bullying, check out STOMP Out Bullying or The Cybersmile Foundation.
You don’t have to suffer alone.
* * *
Find a teacher, a friend, or a guardian you can trust and tell them how you feel. Remember, no one will know unless you say something. Most people don’t wish you any harm, and telling them how you feel takes so much of the weight off your shoulders. We are not weak just because our emotions take hold of us sometimes. Strength comes in numbers.
A miracle is not like someone waving a magic wand and making everything in your life perfect. Believe me, I still struggle with letting my scar show, and I do still have panic attacks and bouts of really dark depression. But whenever I feel even the slightest twitch of darkness returning, I try to put my focus on something more positive—maybe by helping someone else going through a hard time. No, nothing is perfect, and I may not be 100 percent all the time yet, but I don’t let the invisible needles left in my heart get the best of me.
The miracle is that I really do have a healthy and loving heart, I have what it takes to overcome the bad days, and I’ve got a million reasons to know I can.
15
THE GIFT OF ASKING FOR HELP
ROSE NGUYEN
In my memory, there’s a dividing line between my old-fashioned, happy life up until early in the ninth grade and everything else that followed. Before high school, the world I recall was a warm and welcoming place for me and my family—my dad, mom, and younger brother. My father was our anchor: wise, and a very handy man. He knew answers to what seemed like every question I ever had. In our traditional Vietnamese, hardworking immigrant household, he led the way, and the future seemed defined, certain, and solid.
Naively, I suppose, before entering high school, I expected the next four years to somehow play out much like a teen movie, à la Disney’s High School Musical: an adorable love story filled with singing and dancing on tables and (as long as I kept up my grades) lots of free time for socializing. My fantasy could not have been more wrong.
In October 2015, with no warning signs, my father suddenly passed away from a ruptured aneurysm in his brain. His departure left behind an open wound—a wound that still has not fully healed.
With the loss of my father, overnight the world went from a safe place to a foreign and foreboding land. When I began experiencing many “firsts” without him—my first time flying on a plane alone, my first time driving alone, my first time facing heartbreak, my first time questioning my own existence—I couldn’t help but yearn for his presence.
Initially, after this unexpected tragedy, I managed to resume my daily life, acting as much as possible like everything was normal—partly by conditioning myself not to validate my grief. Mainly, because I was young, I just didn’t know how to handle the painful loss of a loved one. And so, despite raw feelings of shock and confusion that I held within, I opted to take on the responsibility of being the English-speaking representative for my mom and a caregiver to my younger brother. Those roles gave me cover so that I could mask the unfamiliar pain below the surface. Slowly, I got through the school year.
Once summer came around, however, I lost hope that the lingering cloud above my head would go away, as it was now not only lingering but raining above my head. The submerged emotions I’d spent ninth grade doing a good job of hiding from others became unmanageable. Almost inevitably, I lost my commonsense grip on reality. Inside I’d be asking, How could this be happening to me?
Why can’t I find my way back to solid ground?
No voices would answer. And I was convinced there was no one who could help me with my burdens. Being raised in my very private, traditional Vietnamese household—where personal emotions were not addressed either because of language barriers or cultural differences—I was unable to talk openly to my mom or other family members about my father’s death.
Without anywhere to turn, I felt stuck.
Soon, I fell into my biggest slump. Daily routines became harder to carry out. Getting out of bed every morning felt like an internal war with no actual winner, attending school was no longer enjoyable, and living no longer felt … real.
ROSE NGUYEN
Even as my feelings of despair and disorientation intensified, I refused to confide in anyone. The people who believed in my tough persona—I’d be letting them down if I told them about my irrational thoughts. It was too awkward to bring up my father’s death in any situation. The last thing I wanted was pity. My way of coping, then, was to continue bottling up all the negative energy by focusing on my academics and my family’s well-being. The cycle seemed endless: go to school, complete extracurriculars, work on house chores, translate documents, babysit my brother.
The naive girl I once was—the girl who thought her life was going to resemble High School Musical—could never have imagined she’d succumb to a period of self-harming. It began to happen, though. Because I couldn’t allow myself to show vulnerability at home, self-harm felt like the only way to experience a tangible, physical pain and still divert the unfamiliar emotions. This was the lowest depth of my darkest time. Looking back, it’s clear I was simply desperate to find release from my
suffocating cloud by reaching for another outlet of pain.
Ironically, during this phase, I continued to attend school, laugh with friends, and bond with my mother and brother, as though I had put the tragedy behind me. Finally I reached a turning point as the first few months of junior year passed and the physical pain of self-harming no longer had any real effect. The voice in my head was still there, but now it was egging me on:
Who says you have to do this all on your own?
Why can’t you just ask for help?
The time had come for me to do just that and confide in my closest friends.
Taking those first steps—daring to ask friends if I could talk to them about my mental state—was the most relieving yet terrifying feeling all at once. The terror came from worry about what would happen if I let down my guard. The relief came from my friends’ utmost generosity of heart. When I opened up about my struggles, I was greeted with respect, acknowledgment, and advice. They surrounded me with a huge amount of love and support that I will be eternally thankful for. They even made me feel that I was honoring them with the gift of my trust. Bit by bit, I steered away from self-harming and, at long last, faced the reality of my own state of grief.
Many of us never let ourselves acknowledge the pain of our losses. When we don’t, I’ve learned, it’s that much harder to heal. Some of us also dive into caring for others but deny ourselves the emotional care we need and deserve, too. One reason I didn’t talk to my friends about my father dying was because I understood that none of them could really relate. Yet there’s nothing wrong with explaining to someone else how it feels to go through something they haven’t. When I began to talk to them and to give voice to my own feelings, it was painful but so liberating. The best way to describe it, I found, was that, at the time, losing my dad was like a tree losing all its rusty leaves once winter came, leaving me to feel lonely and abandoned.
I am extremely proud of Rose for sharing how she felt after losing her father and reaching out for help when she was engaging in self-harm. I’ve been open about my own journey and I, too, learned that loving and respecting yourself — your mind and your body — are important ways to ensure you are healthy. If you are struggling with self-harm, visit To Write Love on Her Arms, or for more information as to how you can get help, check out Project Semicolon.
Today I am still in the process of healing, but I now feel a sense of peace with my grief after accepting it’s possible to learn to heal from sorrow. After three years, I made it a goal to be patient with myself and trust the process of life and growth to see me through.
With all that I have learned, three important lessons about loss stand out:
BE PATIENT WITH YOURSELF. If you’ve lost a loved one, it’s okay to be angry, sad, lost, and any other emotions that come up. Feelings are completely valid. We each have a different time clock when it comes to processing grief, so don’t force yourself to adhere to someone else’s schedule. Be kind to yourself. Let those around you know if you are ready to talk or not; you can guide them through your journey of healing as well. Soon enough, the pain you are feeling will slowly become more bearable. Trust the process. There is kindness in this world for you, too.
ALWAYS REMEMBER THE GOOD THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVED ONE. So many times I’ve heard a song or smelled a certain scent that reminds me of my dad. Hold on to loving memories. Let yourself laugh at funny moments shared in the past or cry at the sadder memories. Cherish the gift of those memories and share them with others. It’s a way of keeping the spirit of your loved one alive.
BE GRATEFUL FOR THE TIME YOU HAD WITH YOUR LOVED ONE. Be grateful not only for the people you’ve had in your life but also for the times when they helped you to grow and improve yourself. Avoid feeling like the world owes you something—a feeling of entitlement diminishes who you are. No matter how rough going your grieving period is, trust that, in time, their memory will pave the way toward healing and all will be well.
The more time goes by, the more I find new ways to connect to my dad’s memory. High school was not exactly the musical I’d once dreamed, but it has not been without joy and growth. My father would be proud to know that I’m resourceful and resilient, and that I believe I am truly capable of anything I put my heart and mind toward. Even if I don’t know how it’s all going to shake out, I know that the future doesn’t have to be faced alone.
No, I’m not Superwoman, and sometimes I battle self-doubt, but I am okay with not being okay all the time. There will continue to be many firsts, seconds, and thirds without my father beside me physically. But as long as I choose, he will always be close to my heart, living in my memories. My traumatic circumstances do not define my life, but instead empower me to reach for bigger and brighter stars.
16
MEMORIES CAN SOMETIMES BE THE BEST MEDICINE
NICHOLAS MCCARDLE
You never know when, where, or how an act of kindness will arrive at a moment when you most need it—but if you open yourself to that possibility, you may be surprised by how quickly it can make every difference in the world.
For Kensey Bergdorf, unprecedented loss struck her existence not long after she finished her freshman year at West Virginia University, where she was studying multidisciplinary studies as well as immunology and medical microbiology. At the age of nineteen, having never faced the loss of a loved one, Kensey’s father died suddenly, followed two days later by the death of her grandmother. In the immediate aftermath, Kensey recalls, “It was earth-shattering. You grow up instantly.”
Lost and unsure how to even begin to cope, welcomed wisdom showed up right away when a friend offered her advice after the funerals, saying: “You need to write down everything you can remember about them, because memories don’t last forever, and you’re going to want those. You’re going to want those little reminders, because ten years from now you may not remember these things.”
Kensey hurriedly started jotting down all the memories of her loved ones she could remember. From trips to the zoo with her dad to the distinct smell of woodsmoke at her grandmother’s house, she captured it all within the lined sheets of a notebook. Pages upon pages of her thoughts and memories were compiled. Every day she could visit her loved ones in stories she might have otherwise forgotten, almost like collecting treasures for a chest to be opened some time in the future. The process of writing was also cathartic and empowering. The point was to pour out all her thoughts and feelings. Things that she couldn’t talk about were easy to let flow onto paper. The notebook wasn’t going to judge her. On the contrary, it allowed her to “get out of my funk.”
Five months after the deaths of her father and grandmother, Kensey’s best friend suddenly lost her dad. Grateful for the kind advice that had been given to her, Kensey brought the family notebooks so that they could all start journaling their memories together. After additionally losing two friends, Kensey had an idea for a project that would elevate the power of journaling for grief and loss to a more structured level—and let her help more of her fellow students. When she approached the university’s Department of Leadership Studies for funding to get a project launched, however, nothing much happened.
Then, in an unplanned moment at a scholarship dinner, she found herself seated next to Dr. Lisa Di Bartolomeo, a world language professor at West Virginia University, and somehow the conversation led to Kensey’s interest in starting the Memory Journal Project.
“It was such a striking idea that I told her immediately, ‘I want to help,’” says Dr. Di Bartolomeo. “I saw how inspired she was by the thought of helping others work through their losses. It was wonderful to see someone take their own pain and reach out to help others work through theirs, and I was just floored by Kensey’s ability to channel that loss into action.”
Kensey was then able to work with individuals from the office of student life and the Carruth Center—the mental health clinic on campus—to start drafting a guideline for students to record their memories. The goal at hand was to create th
erapeutic prompts and activities to engage those who were using it, and Kensey accomplished just that. After getting the guideline polished up and the notebooks finished, they were made available to everyone on campus.
Dealing with grief is never easy; thank you, Nicholas, for highlighting a healthy way to cope with loss in Kensey’s memory books. There is a beautiful quote by one of my favorite writers, Rainer Maria Rilke, that says, “Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror. Just keep going, no feeling is final.” I’ve found peace in those words, and I hope you do, too. Remember, if you’re hurting, you’re not alone, so please consider creating your own memory book, joining a support group, or talking through your feelings. For more resources on how to do this, check out The Dougy Center or the National Alliance for Grieving Children.
Kim Mosby, senior associate dean of students, describes how Kensey galvanized attention, not just to the issues of loss and grief but to the potential of finding a positive outlet and a support group. Mosby says, “She was very focused and determined to bring this to our campus, and we all got behind her in this endeavor.”
Kensey explains that helping other people find an outlet for their grief “is everything to me. It was so horrible for me, and I don’t want anyone else to go through that.” She wanted to offer more than the generic grief pamphlets that are often handed out. She wanted her Memory Journal Guide Book to feel as encouraging as the advice first given to her when she was grappling with the overwhelming anger that she had to get off her chest. So she included prompts for writing and drawing, along with suggested activities for retrieving memories. Her hope was to give others the same permission she was given to turn her journaling into a “brain dump,” as she calls it.
Channel Kindness Page 7