I’d asked her to hang out for a few minutes to talk. She had bolted the first time, but seemed willing to wait for me to talk with some other students, for which I was thankful.

Normally a thoughtful student, she’d stopped participating in discussions and had neglected homework as well as a paper, which was now a couple weeks overdue. I’m not strict about deadlines (obviously), but I try to make sure my students are aware that I do expect updates on their progress, if not actual assignments turned in, or some idea of when I might expect to see writing.

She was clearly nervous, which I anticipated. After apologizing, she hinted that things are home were standing in the way of her completing the work for her classes. She left this statement hanging in the air between us, so I pressed a little.

“Are you alright? Can I help to clarify what is expected for the essay you are still missing? Can I help at all?”

The deep breath and barely suppressed tears were too familiar.

“I’m having a hard time. I have bi-polar depression…” A searching glance assessing me for judgment. I held her eyes. I nodded.

“I understand how hard it is to be unwell. Overwhelming.”

Surprise and then release. “Yes. Being a full-time student is a lot. I thought I could handle it…I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

“I know how difficult finding a balance can be, but you are an insightful person and I know you are trying. If you need more time, I can work with you.” It isn’t more than I would say to any other student, but, at the same time, this was much more.

We talked for several minutes. She thanked me for understanding, for not misunderstanding her struggle, for offering to help and accommodating her needs. Without giving more information than the situation allowed, I was able to let her see that what she described was not strange to me; her struggle was familiar, and more than that, not in any way a reason for her to feel she should give up being the smart, thoughtful person she clearly is, regardless of what she feels presently. She was relieved and I, I was elated.

The mirror we can provide for those around us, learning to articulate what it is like to live with mental illness, is powerful. At twenty-three, I do not know that I could have been as honest as my student, but at thirty-eight, I no longer have any confusion about the necessity of clarity. We cannot live in the shadows, though illness makes us feel we should. Life wants us to be brave and ask for acknowledgement, even when what we request is compassion. Perhaps, especially then. The way out of feeling buried by the loneliness and invisibility that mental illness creates in our lives is through moments of recognition. “I see you. You are not alone.”

If there is one gift I am granted by disease, which otherwise causes me exhaustion and confusion, it is this ability to see this shared need, and speak in order to break through. If I can do this once, and experience the power contained within this recognition, I can nurture a light which offers comfort. And I can do this again. That’s hope.

This is me just after talking to my student yesterday: