I don’t think people really understood how much I was hurting.

To everyone else, I was the bubbly cheerleader. I had friends, decent grades, and the kind of smile that made people believe I was okay. But inside, I felt like I was constantly running on empty. Social media made everything worse—comparing my life to people who always seemed happier, thinner, prettier, better.

The truth was, I hated myself. Every single part.

I started cutting my wrists at 14. Not because I wanted to die—not at first—but because I didn’t know how else to release the pain. It was the only thing that made me feel real. I kept it hidden for over a year.

One day, a girl in my class gave a presentation about mental health awareness. She mentioned Project Semicolon and said something that stuck with me: “You don’t have to wait until you’re in crisis to ask for help.”

That night, I looked it up. I read a story from someone just a few years older than me who had gone through the same darkness—and lived. I cried harder than I ever had before.

I told my mom everything the next morning.

We found a therapist who didn’t judge me. Who listened. Who helped me put language to the chaos in my head. I’ve been in therapy for over a year now. I’m not perfect, but I’m better. I haven’t self-harmed in eight months. I joined a teen support group where I met others who understand. And I finally believe that I deserve to exist.

I started painting again too. It helps quiet the noise in my head. I use bright colors now, where I used to only draw in black and gray. I gave my favorite piece to the girl who gave that classroom presentation. I don’t think she knows she saved my life.

My story isn’t over. And if you’re a teenager reading this who feels like no one sees you—I do. I see you. And you’re not alone.