I’ve once sat on the phone with a woman in the middle of a panic attack, unable to say anything other than, “I’m here with you.” I’ve listened to a woman stress about how much alcohol she’s drinking and about her son who isn’t calling her. I’ve listened to someone my age describe the deep well of his depression he can’t climb out of. I’ve listened to a man who has such terrible anxiety that he tells you his cleaning and grocery schedule a week ahead of time. I’ve listened to friends describe sexual assaults and their subsequent PTSD.

According to NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), it is Mental Illness Awareness Week, but I wish it was Mental Illness Speak Out Week. We can spew out all of the facts about mental health disorders all we can, but I feel like we won’t be completely aware about mental illness until we listen. Not everyone can be in my field of therapy or volunteer on a hotline, but everyone can listen.

It does take practice. A lot of it. Because we are not trained to listen. We are taught to be heard and to surround ourselves with noise. I myself have always been quiet. I’ve told people that I like to listen instead of talk, but even then I didn’t really know how to listen.

Working at CONTACT Helpline of Central Pennsylvania a couple years ago opened up my eyes (and ears) about the true meaning of listening. There I became aware of all those times I was thinking about my next sentence instead of listening to whoever was speaking. I became aware of all the noise in my head that is keeping me back. Most of all, I learned these active listening skills (and more):

Validating (let them know that their experience/emotion is valid and important)

Withholding judgment (a lot of our statements can unintentionally be judgmental; recognize your own prejudices and have an open mind)

Reflecting (a simple way to tell someone you’re paying attention; one way is to paraphrase what you just heard)

I do not mean to stand on my soapbox and I most certainly do not pretend to know everything about active listening. I have, however, observed how much active listening can change lives for the better. After all, my own mental health struggles have been listened to. And that, to me, has made all the difference in my life. Without having been listened to throughout school and other life experiences, I wouldn’t be the strong person I am today and I most certainly would not have become a therapist. I was listened to so that one day I could become a listener.

So, if you are willing and able, please listen to someone today, tomorrow, or the next year. You might change someone’s life.

And if you aren’t willing or you aren’t able to listen, I encourage you to talk. You are strong and courageous and you can get through whatever you’re going through.

3 things I’m grateful for:

1. People who have listened to me: my high school therapist, my siblings, my parents, my friends

2. Having a steady caseload of clients.

3. The first snowfall happening this Thursday.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline Number: 1-800-273-8255

Dial 2-1-1 for information on mental health resources such as crisis hotlines, therapists, support groups & more. 2-1-1 is a national number.

NAMI’s website: https://www.nami.org/

Almost every morning, my mom and I work out a local gym. When people are impressed, I tell them, “I couldn’t do it without my mom.” And I’ve heard her say, “Knowing she’s expecting me gets me up and going.”

We both do it for self-care. Most of the time. Sometimes, I feel awake and great about myself. Other times, I feel disheartened about my weight. But for the most part, I do it for a short escape from my stress, worries, and schedule.

Except that I can’t always escape my worries, especially about the world, which are represented on the TV screens above me in the form of Fox News and CNN. Looking from one screen to the other, comparing how each story is portrayed differently fills me with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Yesterday, the screens were filled with Epstein’s bail denial, a ballot to change a Denver neighborhood’s name connected with the Klu Klux Klan, and the burning of the flag at a local ICE protest, and more.

The news is forever intermixed with news stories that are both positive and disheartening. I remember watching these same screens during Kavanaugh’s trial last October, knowing that justice would lose. A few months ago, I watched reports of a school shooting in Colorado, thankful that none of the kids I served at my internship were affected.  And in the last weeks, I’ve heard about the scheduling of ICE raids in Denver. Looking at these news stories, I am overwhelmed with emotion: anger, sadness, weariness, and uselessness. I forget the positive news stories and the events that give me hope. Joy seems to be the exception these days.

Except, I’ve found myself listening to podcasts such as Ask Me Another and Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, which use humor to poke fun at current events and podcasts such as On Being and Harry Potter and the Sacred Text, which finds meaning making as well as humor in the dark aspects of life.

Except, I found and made music playlists such as A Woman’s Rage: Songs About Being Fed Up (NPR Music on Spotify) which are born out of deep seated frustrations (Kavanaugh, in that particular playlist’s case) and remind me of the solidarity of the MeToo movement and created playlists for the last three years, which contain songs reminding me of the emotions I was feeling and the events that happened.

I am frequently divided between being proud of myself for setting aside these things for self-care and feeling guilty for doing these instead of helping with the world’s woes. I wonder if I’ll be remembered as someone who simply watched or did something. I do wonder, but it doesn’t help anybody to wonder, so I’ll just do. As much as I’m able. While I’m taking care of myself.

Three items of gratitude (from my gratitude box):

First card: I am grateful I’m alive and breathing. 10/19/17. Second card: I’m grateful for this gratitude box. 4/26/18. In between is a rock from Wisconsin.

Every time I open my phone, I see this picture:

Taken at the annual remembrance of the homeless who have died on the streets of Denver earlier this year, it reminds me of two things: hope and why I’m studying to be a social worker. The remembrance happened on the longest night of the year and the coldest night that we had felt so far. As the long list of those who had died were read, I spied a kid, about 7 or 8 flame of his candle. Entranced by his candle and enable to keep my own lit, I snapped a quick, albeit poor quality picture.

My family occasionally volunteered at a soup kitchen with my church when I was still in elementary school. I didn’t understand who these people were whose skin was weathered by the sun, had missing teeth, and sometimes spoke roughly. I was simply there to wash dishes and serve dessert. I, of course, did not realize that there were children my age that were like these people, without a home and often without food.

Later in high school, I volunteered at a day shelter in downtown Denver. I saw more weathered skin, missing  teeth and limbs, but I also learned to observe some of their struggles with mental health issues and heard in passing tempestuous relationships with the criminal justice system. What gave me hope as a teenager with a home and no trauma in my past was their smiles and their “thank you.”

It is hard to hold onto that hope of a 15-17 year old as I work with a plethora of people who have been homeless, who have had traumatic experiences, have lost the support of their families because of their substance abuse and/or mental illness, or have been mistreated by so many social systems that are supposedly there for them.

But the thing about that tenacious candle, was that it was held by a child, who perhaps did not quite realize what the memorial was for or what homelessness means, but was there anyway. That child was influenced by his parents, just like I was (and am), to bear witness to the homeless. And perhaps, he, like I, will be inspired to become more than an observer. Perhaps he will become their storyteller, their doctor, or even their social worker. This, in an administration of increased ignorance, gives me hope.