Conversations on Mental Health, Human Connection & Healing

When Mental Health Comes Home Again

Hello friends,

This is a difficult newsletter to write.

This week, I received a call from my daughter's school counselor.

My 13-year-old had told her that she had been experiencing suicidal thoughts. And not just that day — she told her she'd been feeling this way for the past couple of months.

I don't know exactly how to describe what happens inside a mother when she hears those words. Especially a mother who has heard them before. Especially when you've supported another child through depression. Especially when you've lost your sister to suicide.

And yet, strangely, I was calm.

I've noticed that about myself. When a situation demands everything I've got, something in me becomes very still.

My husband and I got in the car and headed to her school. On the way, I called her pediatrician. I already knew we needed another psychiatric evaluation — after we'd visited her doctor for a checkup early summer, we'd gotten a few referrals, and what I had been able to find in the meantime was a new therapist specializing in adolescents, who began seeing her in July.

But now the situation had changed.

Her pediatrician told us to take her to a behavioral health emergency department.

So that's what we did.

Five hours that changed the direction

At the hospital, I could see that my daughter was frightened. She wanted to go home.

I told her, "If you had a high fever, I wouldn't take you home before the doctors knew you were safe. I'm not going to treat this any differently. And I'm here with you all the way."

So we stayed.

Five hours later, after an evaluation, she was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. The recommendation was intensive outpatient treatment through Charlie Health, where she could have access to psychiatric care alongside individual, group and family therapy.

And suddenly, after months of trying to figure out what the next step should be, there was a path forward.

I've thought a lot about whether I should tell you any of this.

I'm a mental health advocate. I wrote a book about families navigating mental health. I own a mental health clinic. I'm certified in Mental Health First Aid. I speak publicly about early awareness and intervention.

And yet, when mental health came crashing through my own front door again, there were moments when I doubted myself too.

That's exactly why I decided I couldn't keep everything we're learning to myself. Because somewhere, another parent is going to get that phone call. And I want them to know one thing I wish every parent knew.

The first words matter.

When my daughter told us what had been happening, there were so many things I could have said. Why didn't you tell me? Don't you know how much we love you? Why would you ever want to do this?

Those questions may come from fear and love, but imagine how they might sound to a frightened child who has finally found the courage to tell someone what's happening inside her.

Instead, the most important thing I could tell her was:

"Thank you for telling your school counselor. Thank you for telling someone. Thank you for asking for help. I'm glad you're here. We'll figure out what comes next together."

We now have a safety plan and a simple way for her to communicate how she's doing when finding the words is difficult.

I don't need her to protect me from what she's feeling. I need her to know that she can tell us.

Questions I still can't answer

Why is our mental health system so overwhelmed? Why was I trying for months to get my daughter a psychiatric evaluation without being able to find timely access? Why did it take suicidal ideation and an emergency visit before we finally had a clearer path to the level of care she needed?

I don't know. Those questions feel much larger than me and my little family. But I also know we're not the only family asking them.

I own a mental health clinic and work inside this world, and I still found parts of the system difficult to navigate. I keep thinking about the parent who doesn't know where to start, doesn't have access to clinicians, doesn't understand the terminology, or doesn't know what the next step should be.

There is so much work left to do.

But something else happened this week that gave me tremendous hope. The response from my daughter's school was markedly different from what our family experienced when my son was struggling six years ago. People recognized the seriousness. They acted. They communicated. They helped us get our daughter somewhere safe.

And when I had to cancel meetings, appointments and podcast interviews this week, I didn't invent an excuse. I told people that my daughter was experiencing a mental health crisis and my family needed me.

Every single person understood.

That matters. We aren't where we need to be. But we aren't where we were either.

Where do we go from here?

I don't know exactly what the coming weeks and months will look like.

My daughter has depression, along with her previous diagnoses of anxiety and ADHD.

That sentence is difficult for me to write. But a diagnosis isn't the end of her story. Now we know more. She has professional support. She has parents who believe mental illness deserves the same seriousness as physical illness. She had the courage to tell someone when she wasn't feeling safe. And she is getting help.

Right now, that is enough.

People who live with depression and anxiety understand the road to healing in a way I never fully can. I don't want to pretend that love alone fixes depression. It doesn't.

But love can listen. Love can believe. Love can get in the car. Love can sit in an emergency department for five hours. Love can find the next doctor, therapist or program. Love can keep showing up while the professionals do the work they're trained to do.

My new friend Ethan from Dork Dancing said something to me recently that has stayed with me: Just because your book ended doesn't mean life ends.

Ain't that the truth.

I wrote Hope Starts at Home from what our family had already lived. Apparently, life still has more to teach me. And I intend to keep learning.

And somehow, hope keeps creating things.

Speaking of Ethan — amid everything happening this week, we also began building something I'm incredibly excited about: DanceForMentalHealth.org. Ethan and I are collaborating to create a home for this movement and explore what Dance for Mental Health™ can become. I'll share much more when the time is right.

For now, my priority is exactly where it needs to be. At home. With my girl.

I'm ending this week's letter with something very simple.

If a child — or anyone you love — tells you they are thinking about suicide, take them seriously. Don't make their first job reassuring you. Thank them for telling you. Stay with them. Help them reach qualified support. And remember that asking for help is not the failure.

Sometimes it is the bravest thing a person can do.

Our mental health system isn't where it needs to be yet. Neither is our collective understanding of mental illness. But I have seen enough change in the six years between my son's experience and my daughter's to know that change is possible.

It starts in schools. It starts in clinics. It starts in workplaces. It starts in communities.

And yes, it starts at home.

With me. With you. With all of us doing our part.

Until our next conversation,

Saroni
Author • Speaker • Mental Health Advocate

If you or someone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts or a mental health crisis in the U.S., call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If there is immediate danger or a medical emergency, call 911 or go to the nearest emergency department.

Founder, Path To Hope™
Owner, Ellie Mental Health Concord, MO

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