Words by Maya J’an / Graphics byLevi LoCascio-Seward / Edited by Lauren Purnell

Ever step into one of those cell phone repair shops? There’s one right in my neighborhood called “U BREAK I FIX”. Like, do I applaud the audacity or cringe at the irony? It strikes me as a metaphor for something deeper, like the unpolished art of mental health. The truth is, it’s on me to clear out the debris of old traumas — the damage from storms I didn’t even brew. You break, I fix.

In high school, one of my closer friends decided to homeschool after her panic attacks became too loud to ignore. She seemed to be living a charmed life — solid family, social whirl, the classic suburban façade. Fifteen-year-old me was shook thinking: if she's crumbling, what does that mean for my own chaos? I secretly thought her worries were a tad overblown; a dose of tough love would do her good. Yet, as I look back, respect — she had a bond with her family, a space to let her anxieties breathe. By that age, chaos was just the wallpaper to my life. If only I had known then — I fix.

I always thought I was more the introverted type — sipping tea in a corner, rather than a party girl twirling on a dance floor. My go-to was always a night wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, the TV flickering something perfectly brain numbing like “Vampire Diaries.” And those “I can’t make it” excuses? They rolled off my tongue like poetry, perfectly crafted lies keeping the world at bay. But the irony? There was always discomfort in my solitude, a restless feeling that spun around my heart. Despite my lifetime of depression I’ve always been that girl — anti-pill with a bias against Advil. But when that gnawing weight on my chest evolved into full-body shakes and a couple hospital visits, I had to confront the reality that, for a time, the pills were a lifeline. My fears danced around dependence and the concern of feeling worse once I stopped.

Just when I thought I was doing everything right, my mental health took a nosedive that felt like a punch to the gut. I clutched my therapy sessions, coped with the side effects, and accepted an extra ten pounds like a friend who overstayed their welcome. In January of 2022, I made a choice. I tossed those little happy pills away, opting instead for exercise, new hobbies, and communion with nature. Reflecting on my mental health journey is like looking at an old photograph — it’s strange and distant, but an essential part of my narrative. I refuse to let that fear-based existence define me, nor allow it to be the cornerstone of my personality. Gone are the days of blaring the TV to drown out my inner turmoil.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that our stories — the gritty, unpolished bits — invite connection. Talking about womanhood, vulnerability, and what makes us feel dead inside over a frothy matcha might heal the world. I’m convinced there’s some ancient alchemy to the ritual of sipping iced drinks with a friend. I swear, it must have been the original elixir for whatever type of madness the cosmos bestowed upon us. With every velvety sip, my closest confidants and I find our sanity returning like a lost cat slipping back home, twitching its tail with familiarity. A dose of calm, my fix, and a sprinkle of solidarity is right there in the steam and kiki. Sure, my panic attacks are still stage left, but they’ve learned to pirouette into longer showers and late-night facetime calls, exchanging sacred secrets of survival with friends who know the show (and the stage fright) all too well.