As I was not diagnosed in any sense during my time in college, I felt unable to disclose my struggles. I felt I had no credibility or legitimacy in asking for help. I suffered through almost two semesters before I asked for help or even expressed an ounce of the discomfort I was experiencing on a daily basis in college. As soon as I did, I wished I had done so sooner. The Disability Service was able to help me regardless of my lack of a diagnosis, and the support I received was transformative.

You may not be able to verbalise your challenges and struggles. After all, they might have become so familiar and painfully routine to you that putting them into words is almost impossible. If you need to, bring someone else to your appointment or write down your thoughts before the appointment. Mostly, go easy on yourself if you hesitate to speak or stumble over your words - in an ideal world, you would never have to contend with this.

I know this one is a tall order; even as I type it, I know it. When you are gritting your teeth and trying to behave as 'normally' as possible while also trying to have an experience that the world considers quintessential, openly admitting that you're struggling can feel counterintuitive. For a while, I felt this way. Even after I had sought help from the student medical unit, student counselling and the disability service, I did not share my day-to-day struggles with those who mattered most to me - my friends. I smiled, laughed, went on nights out, pretended, faked, and lied. I had to, I thought. Otherwise, I might fall to my knees and stop being able to keep up my everyday magic act – the illusion that I can do this.

I didn't start telling people about my problems like one big TED talk. Instead, it was like ice, splintering and breaking - it happened in stages. By the end of my second year, I had learned a vernacular to speak about my illnesses and differences, and this practice made all the difference. Yes, expressing myself to those from whom I sought support was helpful, but more than that, it was empowering. Not only could I speak, but I could also advocate. This skill has only grown over time. So, start where you are. Explain what you can. Communicate what it is that you understand and know that no conversation about your needs has to be ever truly ‘finished’. As life goes on, your needs will change, and so will your ability to communicate them.

When I was going to university in 2013, the conversation surrounding mental health was present and skyrocketing - but a hesitancy remained that I do not see in the frank, honest ways in which Gen-Z seems to communicate their struggles. We spoke candidly to each other about our struggles, but not to everyone- just the trusted few. And this was progress from our parents' generation. As a result of this hesitancy, I categorised my struggles into separate universes. Yes, I had a chronic illness, but that was a standalone issue, right? It couldn't possibly leak into the rest of my life, turning my entire worldview a dark, navy hue of depression. In the end, it took me several months too long to ask for help and as a result, by the time I stood inside the student counselling building with a fresh prescription for anti-depressant medication in my bag, I was an empty shell. How could I speak and express myself when I had not only waited until I was on my knees to ask for help but when my face was in the dirt, thoroughly defeated by life? Ultimately, I made the long walk back from the void of feeling nothing, but I genuinely wish I had not had so far to walk. So, please - ask for help when you first need to speak with someone. It is an already overdue necessity if you are thinking about it, no matter how idly.

When I was a child, and my father would come home from work with the weary weight of adulthood resting on his shoulders, he would tell me that I should relish my time in school because these were among the best years of my life. These conversations only increased in frequency when I began university, and I would ring home, speaking about house parties, warm libraries, and student discounts. Admittedly, I never countered this sentiment when talking with my dad, but over time, it began to feel not just untrue but infuriating. How could this be my prime? How can I continue to put one foot in front of the other if I know that life only worsens from here? And worse still - does living within the joyful and innately privileged environment of a university discount my genuine pain? For a long time, I thought so.

I wish someone had placed their hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes and told me that I was right to rage. To want more than the hand I have been dealt. I wanted someone to tell me that acknowledging pain does not make me ungrateful for the moments where pain is absent. Cry if you need to, scream if you have to and more than anything, feel and never stop feeling. Perhaps that is the real definition of living and living well. Feeling and feeling fully.