How Therapy Stopped Being BS for Me

I'm gonna be straight with you guys - six months ago, if you told me I'd be writing about therapy, I would've laughed in your face. Not because I thought I was too cool for it, but because I genuinely believed it was just expensive complaining to a stranger who nods and says "how does that make you feel?"

But here I am at 20, and honestly? Therapy might be the most real thing I've done for myself.

My therapist, Dr. Martinez, does something weird - we walk. Like, actual walking outside instead of sitting in some sterile office. First session, I thought she was just trying to be the "cool therapist," but now I get it. Something about moving makes it easier to talk without feeling like I'm under a microscope.

During one of our walks through the park near her office, she asked me why I always assume my friends are annoyed with me when they don't text back immediately. I started to give my usual "I don't know, I just do" response, but then she asked me to think about the first time I remember feeling that way.

Suddenly I'm remembering being 12, texting my older brother about some video game, and him not responding for hours. When he finally did, he said he was "busy with his real friends." That hit different as a kid. Dr. Martinez helped me see how that one moment created this whole pattern where silence = rejection in my brain.

The depression I've been dealing with isn't the dramatic, can't-get-out-of-bed kind you see in movies. It's more like this constant low-level static that makes everything feel harder than it should be. Getting to class feels like walking through sludge. Hanging out with friends exhausts me even when I have fun. I just thought I was lazy or broken.

But Dr. Martinez started pointing out patterns I never noticed:

The Sunday Spiral: Every Sunday around 6 PM, I'd get this crushing anxiety about the week ahead. We traced it back to how my parents used to fight every Sunday night about money when I was in middle school. My brain learned that Sunday evening = stress incoming, even though my current life is nothing like that.

The Success Sabotage: Whenever something good happened - good grade, girl I liked texted me back, whatever - I'd immediately start waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, actively looking for reasons why it wouldn't last. Turns out this started in high school when my parents got divorced right after I made varsity soccer. Young me connected "good things happening" with "life falling apart."

The Comparison Trap: I'd scroll through Instagram and TikTok feeling like everyone else had figured out this whole "being 20" thing while I was just pretending. Dr. Martinez asked me to pay attention to what I was actually seeing vs. what I was assuming. Spoiler alert: 30-second highlight reels aren't real life documentation.

One day we were walking past this group of college kids having what looked like the perfect picnic - laughing, looking effortlessly cool, probably planning their amazing weekend plans. I made some comment about how I never feel that carefree.

Dr. Martinez asked, "What if one of them just failed a midterm? What if another one is worried about their parents' marriage? What if the guy who seems most confident just got rejected by someone he really liked?"

It sounds simple, but it genuinely never occurred to me that other people might be performing happiness the same way I do. That maybe my assumption that everyone else has it figured out is just... wrong.

She also got me thinking about this thing I do where I replay embarrassing moments from like three years ago at 2 AM. Apparently, this is called rumination, and it's not actually productive problem-solving like I thought. It's more like mental self-harm. Learning that it had a name and that it was a thing people do made me feel less like a weirdo.

Look, I was worried about the stigma too. I worried people would think I was "crazy" or weak. I worried about it affecting future relationships or jobs somehow. But you know what's actually weak? Staying stuck in the same patterns that make you miserable because you're scared of what people might think.

Most of my friends have been cool about it. A few even said they'd been thinking about trying therapy themselves. Turns out, a lot of us are dealing with similar stuff - we just don't talk about it because we're all trying to look like we have our shit together.

The ones who made jokes or seemed uncomfortable? That says more about their own stuff than mine.

I'm not "cured" or whatever. I still have bad days. I still sometimes spend too long on social media comparing myself to people. I still get that Sunday anxiety sometimes.

But now I notice these things happening instead of just being trapped in them. I have actual tools instead of just "tough it out" or "try to think positive." And honestly, understanding why my brain does certain things has made me way less angry at myself.

Dr. Martinez helped me see that my depression isn't some character flaw - it's my brain trying to protect me based on old information. Learning to update that information is work, but it's work that actually leads somewhere.

For anyone on the fence, if you're reading this and thinking about therapy but aren't sure, here's what I wish someone had told me: it's not about being broken. It's about understanding how you work so you can work better.

Yeah, it costs money (though my school's counseling center has affordable options). Yeah, it takes time. Yeah, it can be uncomfortable talking about your stuff.

But staying stuck costs more in the long run. And honestly? Walking around understanding yourself is pretty powerful.

You don't have to wait until you're in crisis. You don't have to earn the right to get help. You just have to be tired enough of your own patterns to try something different.

Max P., a 20-year-old college student.

When Summer Break Feels More Like Summer Breakdown

When Summer Break Feels More Like Summer Breakdown

Everyone always talks about how amazing summer break is. Freedom! No homework! Sleeping in! And don't get me wrong – I love the idea of all that. But as I'm sitting here at the end of May, watching my friends post about their exciting summer plans and job announcements, I can't shake this weird anxious feeling in my stomach.

Maybe I'm the only one who feels this way, but the transition from school to summer actually stresses me out more than finals week sometimes.

I know I should be excited. Three months with no alarm at 6:30 AM sounds like heaven. No more cramming for tests or stressing about that history project I definitely procrastinated on. Summer should mean freedom, adventures, maybe even some fun for once.

But here's what nobody talks about: all that freedom can feel overwhelming when you're used to having every hour of your day planned out. During the school year, I know exactly where I need to be and when. First period at 8 AM, lunch at 12:15, soccer practice at 3:30. It's not always fun, but there's something comforting about that routine.

Now suddenly it's like... what do I do with myself?

And then there's all the pressure that comes with summer "freedom." Everyone expects you to do something meaningful. Get a job. Volunteer somewhere impressive. Take a summer course to get ahead. Plan for college applications. Be productive!

My parents keep asking what my summer plans are, and honestly? I don't really know. Some of my friends already have internships lined up or cool jobs at the local pool. Others are doing expensive summer programs that sound amazing but also terrifying. Meanwhile, I'm over here still trying to figure out if I'm ready for the responsibility of a real job.

The job hunt itself is its own kind of anxiety. Writing cover letters when you have zero work experience. Hoping someone calls you back. Wondering if you'll be good enough, smart enough, responsible enough. What if I mess up? What if I hate it? What if they hate me?

I think what gets to me most is how the lack of structure messes with my head. During school, even when I'm stressed, I know what's expected of me. But summer feels like this big blank space where I'm supposed to magically know how to fill my time in a "meaningful" way.

Some days I wake up at noon and feel guilty about it, even though technically I can sleep as late as I want. Other days I have so much free time that I just scroll social media for hours and then feel worse about myself. It's like I need someone to tell me what to do, but also I want independence. It's confusing.

I'm still figuring this out, but I've found a couple of things that help when the summer anxiety hits:

Creating my own routine: I know it sounds weird to voluntarily give yourself structure when you finally have freedom, but it actually helps. I started setting a (reasonable) wake-up time for myself and planning one or two things for each day, even if it's just going for a walk with my dog or reading for an hour. It gives me something to anchor to without being as rigid as school.

Talking to friends about it: Turns out I'm not the only one feeling this way! When I finally mentioned to my best friend that summer transitions stress me out, she was like "OMG yes, me too!" We've started checking in with each other about how we're doing with all the changes. Sometimes just knowing you're not alone in feeling anxious makes it way more manageable.

I'm still working on accepting that it's okay to not have the "perfect" summer planned out. Maybe I won't get that impressive internship or meaningful volunteer position. Maybe I'll work a regular part-time job and spend some days just hanging out with friends or catching up on shows I missed during the school year.

And you know what? That's probably okay too.

To anyone else feeling anxious about summer break: you're not alone. Take it one day at a time, be patient with yourself, and remember that there's no "right" way to spend your summer. We'll figure it out as we go.

Maya F. is 17 years old.

From Rock Bottom to Recovery: My Journey with Gambling Disorder in College

From Rock Bottom to Recovery: My Journey with Gambling Disorder in College

When I first stepped onto campus at Indiana University as a freshman, I never imagined that gambling would become the center of my life. What started as casual poker nights in the dorm quickly spiraled into an all-consuming addiction that nearly cost me everything.

The Beginning

It was innocent at first—$20 buy-ins with friends on Friday nights. I was pretty good, and winning felt amazing. That dopamine rush was unlike anything I'd experienced. Soon I discovered online poker sites and sports betting apps. Between classes, I'd place "just one bet" to make watching games more exciting.

My roommate noticed I was staying up until 3 AM most nights, hunched over my laptop, but I dismissed his concerns. I was in control. I could stop anytime.

The Spiral

By sophomore year, gambling had taken over. I'd skip classes to bet on European soccer matches happening during the day. I started taking out small loans and maxing out credit cards. I borrowed money from friends, always promising to pay them back after my "big win" came through.

The worst part wasn't losing money—it was what happened when I won. Each win convinced me I could recover everything if I just kept going. I developed elaborate betting systems I was certain would work. When they didn't, I'd double down, chasing losses with increasingly desperate bets.

Rock Bottom

My breaking point came during finals week of junior year. I had emptied my savings, owed thousands in credit card debt, and burned bridges with friends I'd borrowed from. After losing my entire monthly budget in one night, I sat alone in my room, unable to afford groceries, my phone shut off for nonpayment. I couldn't even call home to ask for help because I was too ashamed.

That night, I wrote an email to the campus counseling center. It was the hardest message I've ever sent, but also the most important.

The Road to Recovery

The counselor connected me with a gambling addiction specialist and a local Gamblers Anonymous group. At my first GA meeting, I was shocked to see people my age. I wasn't alone.

Recovery wasn't linear. I installed blocking software on my devices to prevent access to gambling sites. I turned over financial control to my parents temporarily while I learned to manage money again. Most importantly, I began addressing the underlying issues—anxiety, impulsivity, and my distorted thinking about money and risk.

Where I Am Today

Two years into recovery, I've repaid most of my debts. I've rebuilt friendships and found healthy ways to enjoy sports without betting. I still attend weekly support meetings and have become a peer counselor for other students struggling with gambling problems.

The statistics about gambling disorder among college students are alarming—up to 6% develop serious problems, higher than the general population. But recovery is possible.

Three Key Takeaways for Anyone Struggling

  1. Recognize the warning signs early. If you're hiding your gambling, chasing losses, or borrowing money to gamble, these are serious red flags. Gambling disorder progresses rapidly, especially in high-stress environments like college.

  2. You don't have to face this alone. Campus counseling centers, national helplines (1-800-GAMBLER), and Gamblers Anonymous groups exist specifically for this problem. The relief of finally sharing my secret was immediate and profound.

  3. Recovery requires addressing the whole person. Gambling disorder isn't just about willpower—it involves brain chemistry, emotional regulation, and often co-occurring issues like anxiety or depression. A comprehensive approach including therapy, support groups, and financial counseling makes lasting recovery possible.

If you're reading this and recognizing yourself or someone you care about, please know that help is available. The shame kept me silent for too long. There is no shame in struggling, and there's certainly no shame in reaching out for help.

Scott R. is a 21-year-old student at Indiana University Bloomington, majoring in Political Science

Overcoming Binge Eating Disorder: My Journey to Recovery

Overcoming Binge Eating Disorder: My Journey to Recovery

When I first realized my relationship with food wasn't normal, I didn't have the words to describe what was happening. Late nights alone with empty containers scattered around me. The familiar cycle of restriction followed by overwhelming urges that I couldn't control. The promises I made to myself each morning that "today would be different" – promises that rarely lasted beyond the afternoon.

Binge eating disorder wasn't just about food. It was about shame. A deep, pervasive shame that colored every aspect of my life.

Recognizing I Needed Help

For years, I thought my problem was simply a lack of willpower. If I could just try harder, be more disciplined, find the right diet – then I could fix myself. But each failed attempt only deepened my self-hatred and intensified the bingeing cycles.

The turning point came after a particularly severe episode. I had canceled plans with friends for the third time that month, claiming I was sick when really I was planning to binge. As I sat surrounded by food wrappers, something inside me finally broke. This wasn't just about food or weight anymore – this was about a life that was becoming smaller and more isolated with each passing day.

I remember googling my symptoms that night, tears streaming down my face, and seeing the term "binge eating disorder" for the first time. The relief of finding a name for my experience was overwhelming. I wasn't crazy. I wasn't weak. I had a recognized disorder that affected millions of people.

The Journey to Recovery

Reaching out for help was the hardest and bravest thing I've ever done. I started with my primary care doctor, who referred me to an eating disorder specialist. I think it is important to share that not all mental health clinicians specialize in eating disorders. The treatment journey wasn't linear – it involved therapy, nutritional counseling, and gradually rebuilding my relationship with both food and my body.

The most powerful part of recovery was addressing the shame that had fueled my disorder for so long. In therapy, I learned that my bingeing wasn't a moral failing but a complex coping mechanism that had developed in response to emotional pain, diet culture, and biological factors beyond my control.

Recovery didn't happen overnight. There were setbacks and difficult days. But slowly, food began to lose its overwhelming power over me. I discovered that freedom wasn't about perfect eating but about developing a more balanced, compassionate relationship with myself.

Three Strategies That Changed Everything

While professional help was essential to my recovery, these three daily practices continue to support my ongoing healing:

  1. Regular, adequate eating: One of the most counterintuitive but powerful interventions was establishing consistent meal times and eating enough throughout the day. I learned that restriction—both physical and psychological—was a primary trigger for my binges. Working with my dietitian to develop a structured but flexible eating pattern helped break the restrict-binge cycle.

  2. Mindfulness practices: Learning to identify and sit with uncomfortable emotions without immediately reaching for food became crucial. Simple mindfulness techniques help me pause when urges arise and recognize what I'm actually feeling. Sometimes I still choose food for comfort, but now it's a conscious choice rather than an overwhelming compulsion.

  3. Community support: Breaking the isolation of BED was transformative. Whether through support groups, trusted friends, or online communities, sharing my story with others who understand has been profoundly healing. Shame thrives in secrecy, but connection provides both accountability and compassion when the journey gets tough.

Life Beyond Binge Eating Disorder

Today, my life looks radically different. Food is just food—sometimes nourishing, sometimes pleasurable, but no longer the center of my existence. I can attend social events without anxiety about what will be served. I can have a difficult day without it inevitably ending in a binge.

Most importantly, I've reclaimed the mental space that used to be consumed by thoughts of food, weight, and shame. That freedom has allowed me to develop meaningful relationships, pursue career goals, and discover passions I never knew I had.

Recovery isn't about achieving perfection. I still have challenging moments and days when old thought patterns resurface. But now I have the tools and support to navigate these challenges without spiraling back into destructive behaviors.

Resources for Those Struggling

If you recognize yourself in this story, please know that help is available and recovery is possible:

The journey to recovery begins with breaking the silence. Reaching out for help isn't a sign of weakness but an act of immense courage. You deserve a life where food is just one small part of a much bigger, richer experience.

The shame doesn't belong to you. It never did.

Anonymous Contributor

My Mental Health Journey: Embracing Struggles and Finding Strength

My Mental Health Journey: Embracing Struggles and Finding Strength

Mental health has been a significant part of my life for as long as I can remember. At just ten years old, I faced a traumatic experience that shaped much of my struggles. From that point on, anxiety became a constant presence—overwhelming and relentless. I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which helped me understand why my mind always felt like it was in overdrive.

Along with anxiety, I developed social anxiety. Since that traumatic event, I’ve struggled to speak in group conversations, feeling as if my voice was stuck inside me. This continued into adulthood, though I’ve made progress. While I’ve learned to navigate social situations, it’s still something I work on every day.

As I got older, I realized anxiety wasn’t the only challenge I faced. In college, mood swings and depression took hold, eventually leading to my diagnosis of bipolar disorder type 2. My hypomanic episodes came with impulsive behaviors—gambling, buying lottery tickets, and seeking reckless distractions. There were times I’d impulsively go to clubs, acting in ways that felt out of control. These highs and lows were exhausting, but with therapy and medication, I began to understand how to manage them.

Life threw even more challenges my way—serious illness in my family, the loss of loved ones, and an internal battle that grew heavier over time. By 2020, when I got engaged, I hit one of my lowest points. Despite the excitement, I was caught between joy and deep despair. That year, I attempted suicide. It was a breaking point—but also a turning point. Therapy helped me see that even in my darkest moments, there was still a path forward.

Marriage brought its own challenges. My husband and I had to learn how to communicate, how to support each other, and how to navigate the complexities of mental health together. Some days were harder than others, but we kept working on it.

Motherhood changed everything. The love I have for my son is unlike anything I’ve ever known, but postpartum brought mood swings and emotional struggles that I wasn’t fully prepared for. Though I wasn’t officially diagnosed with postpartum depression, I felt its weight. Even on the hardest days, my love for my son kept me going.

Through all of this, I’ve had to learn how to cope rather than just survive. One of the most helpful skills I learned in outpatient therapy was Opposite-to-Emotion Action. When I feel depressed, every instinct tells me to stay in bed. Instead, I take small steps in the opposite direction—sitting up, putting my feet on the floor, standing. Even when it feels impossible, those small steps help me move forward.

I also learned Radical Acceptance, a mindset that has been crucial in my healing. I have bipolar disorder. I have faced trauma. These are facts. But instead of resisting or dwelling on them, I ask myself: It is what it is. Now what? What positive steps can I take to move forward? What can I do today to make my life better?

Looking back, I know my journey hasn’t been easy, but it has made me who I am. I’ve learned resilience, self-compassion, and the importance of reaching out for help. Mental health struggles don’t define a person—what they do with those struggles does.

If you’re reading this and feeling alone, please know that you’re not. There is always hope. There is always a way forward. Even the smallest steps in the right direction can change everything. 

Rachel, in her late 20s, is a mother, wife, daughter, and mental health advocate who lives with anxiety and bipolar disorder.