It took me a while to figure out what I was going to write about for this column. Initially, I was thinking about taking up a friend’s offer to ghostwrite for me, but I quickly thought otherwise because, come on, my loyal fans would’ve spotted an impostor. Later on, I found myself sitting on Prez Lawn, enjoying the beautiful weather and sun. It was one of those moments of peace and serenity — something that I realized I hadn’t felt in a while. I distinctly remember looking around and seeing an inordinate number of students lounging on Adirondack chairs and picnic blankets, smiling and laughing with each other. It brought a smile to my face.
It was at that moment — my hands digging into the earth, my face warming from the sun, my ears hearing cheerful banter — that I realized that life is a motherf---er. I know that seems very paradoxical for that to be my takeaway. The first day of the year that I wore shorts and got to see flowers bloom was the day that I understood that life is hard. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it was the contrast that hit me — how something could look so perfect yet feel so heavy. And maybe that’s the thing about mental health — it’s full of contradictions.
I sat there on Prez Lawn, surrounded by light and laughter, and felt something I couldn’t quite name. Not sadness, exactly. Not happiness either. Just a kind of ache. Like my body remembered how to feel good before my mind caught up.
Struggling with mental health, as a whole, is a very strange topic to write about. It’s one of those taboos where many of us have experienced it, but no one is truly willing to open up fully about it. It’s a topic that we can all relate to, but no one has had the same experience. Nonetheless, it is a very important topic to speak about.
To be honest, I don’t know what to say. For the first time in this column’s tenure, I’m at a loss for words. I have no humorous stories or witty remarks about this topic. It’s strange. It’s really weird to have a knot in my throat and writer’s block. But maybe that’s the essence of mental illness — no one can truly describe it, but everyone knows it.
Mental health is truly like a candle in the wind. That day on Prez Lawn reminded me that mental health isn’t tangible — it doesn’t follow the weather. It doesn’t wait for the right time. It’s one of those things where everything can be going well, and it still feels like you’re sprinting underwater. Where the sun is shining and the birds are chirping, but it feels like the dead of winter.
And that’s okay. That’s real.
It’s okay to sometimes not know what’s happening with yourself — to not have the right words to describe how you feel. We don’t always talk about the ambiguity in mental health — a weight whose origins remain unknown. It’s scary to feel like s--- and not know why. But here’s the thing: You are not alone.
Seriously, you are not alone. I know that sometimes it feels like everyone else has it figured out and you’re the only one who hasn’t. But behind every curated Instagram post or perfectly timed joke, there’s often someone else just trying to figure it out too. And once we realize that, why not reach out? Why not open a hand instead of turning away?
Right now, someone’s sitting across from me as I write this — a stranger, but I’m almost certain they’ve felt the same heaviness I have. Maybe not in the same way, but close enough to know the weight. They’ve had their own dark moments, moments where the light felt unreachable. And if that’s true — if we’re all quietly carrying something — then why wouldn’t I offer a hand, just in case they need it?
So maybe that’s what that moment on Prez Lawn was really about. Not the sunshine or laughter that filled the air, but a quiet reminder that, even in moments of stillness and beauty, it’s okay to feel the weight of everything else. Maybe, just maybe, the most human thing we can do is to acknowledge, to share, to offer a hand when someone else is feeling it too. At the end of the day, no one has it figured out, but knowing we aren’t alone can make all the difference.
This is what this column (and perhaps the entire journey of this Jumbo) is about — not answers or solutions, but reminders. Even in the messiness, the silence or the moments we can’t explain, we’re still here. Still trying. Still showing up.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all we can do. Maybe that’s everything.
Be gentle with yourself. Be gentle with others. We’re all doing the best we can.
Yours,
Ben Rachel
