Unseen and Ignored

Hidden behind smiles, tucked under busy schedules, folded neatly into the lives we think we know.

But they were never invisible.

Not really.

They sit at the edges of every room, rest in the pauses of conversations, echo in the spaces between words we didn’t want to hear.

We just chose not to see them.

Not because we couldn’t, but because we didn’t want to go there didn’t want the weight of someone else’s pain to tug at our already heavy hands.

Didn’t want the ache of their world to ripple into ours.

So we called them invisible.

As if that let us off the hook.

As if not looking made it go away.

But the truth is, in every space, every family, every friend group and grocery store line.

Anxiety, depression, ADHD, chronic pain, PTSD, grief that lingers longer than anyone says it should, hearts breaking behind closed doors.

We think if we can’t see it, it is not there or for attention and other untrue beliefs.

But how many times have we missed the quiet tears in the car, the skipped meals, the missed calls, the tremor in someone’s voice when we said, “I’m fine”?

How often do we trade compassion for comfort?

Nodding along instead of sitting non- judgementally and authenticically holding space.

It’s Mental Health Awareness Month again, and I wonder if we’re ready— not just for the posts, the slogans, the once-a-year campaigns, but for the actual seeing.

The messy, unfiltered, sit-with-it-and-know-it kind of seeing.

Because real awareness means opening our eyes to the things we’ve been taught to turn away from.

It means sitting in the discomfort of not knowing how to fix it, and showing up anyway.

It means asking, “How are you really?”And meaning it.

It means noticing when someone withdraws, when they laugh a little less, when they miss deadlines or appointments or just don’t have the same sparkle they used to.

It means noticing and then caring enough to follow through.

Us with so called Invisible illnesses don’t want pity. We want understanding, we want the metaphorical light turned on.

Not blinding, not overwhelming, just bright enough to say: I see you. I see you struggling. And I’m here.

We don’t need a month to remind us of that.

But sometimes, it takes a month like this to call us in, to remind us that mental health is not a box we check,

Not a day we celebrate and then forget.

It’s an ongoing conversation. a lifelong commitment to seeing what’s been there all along.

Invisible? No. Unseen? Too often.

But now—

Now we get to choose differently.

So let’s choose to look.

Let’s choose to listen to the stories we didn’t know how to hold, to the voices that have been quieted for too long.

Let’s make this Mental Health Awareness Month not just a hashtag, but a turning point.

A moment where we say:

No more invisible.

No more unseen.

No more pretending that someone’s struggle doesn’t belong to us all.

Because the truth is. We are all connected— by the weight we carry,

By the light we can shine, by the choice to say

I see you. I’m with you. Let’s walk this together.

And yet, even when the words are spoken aloud—when someone musters the courage to name their pain, their exhaustion, their quiet battles—we still hesitate. We still shift in our seats, fumble for solutions, and offer well-meaning but hollow encouragements. "It'll get better." "You're stronger than this." "Just keep pushing through."

But acknowledgment isn’t the same as understanding. Recognition isn’t the same as real change.

Real change means asking not just, “What can I do?” but, “What do you need?”

It means making space—not just for awareness, but for action. For accommodations that aren’t begrudgingly granted but freely given. For conversations that extend beyond the awareness month, beyond the expected check-ins, beyond the bare minimum of care.

It means no longer waiting for a crisis to open our eyes. Because if we see them—if we truly see them—then we can no longer turn away.