What showing up for someone else looks like

I want to do things a bit differently this time. I’ve had my experiences with mental health struggles, and while I’m only comfortable sharing some parts of that right now, what I do want to share is what showing up for someone who’s struggling actually looks like.

When I was going through the toughest time in my life, my friends showed up in ways I could’ve never been able to ask for. If someone had asked what I needed, I would’ve said “I don’t know” ,because I really didn’t. The only thing I knew was that I was suffering, and I needed help.

I’ve struggled with mental health since the age of 13, and for most of my life, those struggles were dismissed. I was the type who functioned with anxiety, who still showed up and smiled, and who said “I’m fine” when I wasn’t.

But this time, I wasn’t functioning. I needed help, and I didn’t know how to ask for it.

The only thing I managed to do was tell one person, the university psychologist who had been helping me manage my anxiety. That was my first step. But the real challenge was that I had just started my Master’s degree and was far away from home.

Funny enough, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, that distance turned out to be a good thing.

Now remember how I said I wanted to talk about how my friends showed up for me? This blog is about them.

While I tried to hide how much I was struggling, they saw right through it. They gave me space to open up, and when I finally did, they didn’t bombard me with questions or expect me to have the answers. They just said, “You’ll be okay.”

At the time, those words meant nothing to me, because it didn’t feel like I’d be okay. But they meant it. And I think that’s what mattered most.

When I felt like I was suffocating, one of them would randomly call and invite me out for lunch, or to do something simple, like walking on the beach, trying new things, or just getting out of the environment that was weighing me down. It was like she could sense what I was feeling. Her timing was always impeccable.

When I disappeared or stopped answering calls, I’d hear a knock on the door. That knock meant one thing: tough love.

On the other side of that door was a friend telling me to put on sweatpants and shoes, because we were going for a walk around campus, to get fresh air and vent without judgement. She’d say:

“You can’t lock yourself in your room. It’s unhealthy.”

It didn’t matter if it was 2am or 4am, she made sure I had air in my lungs. She made sure I felt seen.

While I was suffering, life didn’t pause.

I had a friend who made sure I wasn’t falling behind on schoolwork. She reminded me about medication, therapy, and made sure I ate. She asked about my research, picked up the slack when I needed space to take care of myself, and helped me stay afloat when everything felt overwhelming.

They reminded me there was more to life than just the pain.

Running errands didn’t feel like torture ,because someone was doing them with me, motivating and affirming me along the way. One friend made sure I still experienced joy: we’d go to arcades, or she’d get the restaurant staff to sing happy birthday to me (even if it was months early!) just so I could get free dessert and a laugh.

She’d invite me to family outings, make sure I was included, so I didn’t feel alone or like a burden.

These people helped me survive that dark period.

They didn’t do anything extravagant. They did small, thoughtful things, but those small things made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could handle what I was going through.

Because that’s what showing up looks like.

It’s not about grand gestures. It’s the tiny things, including someone in your errands, giving them space to speak, checking in, showing up, helping them handle life’s daily tasks, making them laugh when they haven’t smiled in days, being kind.

Those things matter.

So as we close this campaign, I want you to remember: Showing up matters.

If it weren’t for those people, my friends, I wouldn’t be here today. I wouldn’t be doing HerEng, or writing this blog.

Love,

From the trenches of adulthood