Mental Health and Trauma

It was a gray Monday morning when Jordan sat in the waiting room of the student counseling center. The hum of fluorescent lights and distant footsteps in the hallway felt louder than they should have. He held his phone in his hand, unlocking and locking it without reading any messages, pretending he wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t sure why he came—only that he couldn’t take much more of the silence in his head.

Jordan was a sophomore at a university in Michigan. He had always been the responsible one: honor roll in high school, captain of the soccer team, and the first in his family to attend college. But something changed during his freshman year. After a car accident left his best friend, Malik, in a coma for three weeks—and eventually paralyzed from the waist down—Jordan began feeling... detached. Like he had been ripped from his own body and dropped into someone else's life.

At first, he told himself he just needed time. But the nightmares started—screeching tires, glass breaking, Malik’s voice calling out for help. He stopped going to soccer practice. Then he stopped going out at all. By mid-semester, he was barely attending class.

He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t want to burden his parents, who already worked overtime to support him. His friends noticed he was withdrawing, but every time they asked if he was okay, he smiled and said, “Yeah, just tired.”

It wasn’t just tiredness, though. It was panic attacks in the middle of the night, guilt so strong it made him nauseous, and the constant thought that maybe, somehow, it should’ve been him instead of Malik.

Eventually, one of his professors, Dr. Lee, asked to speak with him after class. She was gentle but firm. “You’ve missed three assignments and two quizzes, Jordan. I’m worried about you. Have you talked to anyone?”

He shook his head.

She handed him a card. “There’s no shame in needing help. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

It took him another week to actually schedule the appointment. And now he was here, trying to keep his leg from bouncing while waiting for a stranger to call his name.

The therapist’s name was Sam. She was younger than he expected, with warm eyes and a calm presence that made the room feel less clinical. For the first five minutes, he said nothing. Then she asked, “What made you decide to come in today?”

And something cracked open.

He didn’t cry—not yet—but his voice shook as he told her about the crash. About Malik. About how heavy everything felt. Sam nodded as he spoke, sometimes asking questions, but mostly letting him talk.

By the end of the session, Jordan felt exhausted—but lighter. Sam explained that what he was experiencing sounded like post-traumatic stress. It wasn’t just sadness; it was trauma. And trauma, she said, was not something people just “get over.” It needed time, space, and sometimes treatment.

Over the next few months, Jordan kept going to therapy. He started journaling and slowly returned to the gym, even if he wasn’t ready for full soccer practice. He reached out to Malik, who had been going through his own healing process. Their conversations were awkward at first, but honest.

Jordan also opened up to his parents, who were more supportive than he had expected. His mom cried and told him she wished he hadn’t felt like he had to hide. His dad, usually quiet, hugged him and said, “You’re not weak for feeling this. You’re strong for facing it.”

By the end of the year, Jordan wasn’t “cured.” He still had bad days. But he wasn’t alone anymore. He had a support system. He understood that mental health wasn’t a straight path, but a winding one with setbacks and breakthroughs. Most importantly, he no longer believed the lie that strength meant silence.