Text written on a blue background, reading: “Last week, I went to a coffee shop near the high school I went to. Tucked away in the corner was a girl - probably 16 or 17. I noticed her before she noticed me.
She ordered a cappuccino. She drank it all even though she knew the caffeine would make her anxious. She’d convinced herself the warmth was worth the discomfort. Besides, she was almost starting to get used to that feeling anyways.
She’d probably come straight from school. She was in trousers that were slightly too tight, and a blouse that was slightly too big. It was clear she wanted to look older than she felt. Or at least different to how she felt. Trying to cosplay one of the glamorous women she used to look up to - back when she thought most adults had it together.
Her headphones were in - tangled and worn (an optimist would say “well-loved”) - and she was scrolling. Probably TikTok or Twitter. I felt her quiet sigh of frustration with each scroll - desperately waiting for something that would offer a genuine escape, even if just momentary. Instead, she saw countless videos and tweets and think pieces on mental health. Influencers trying to diagnose her with BPD or ADHD or GAD based on her symptoms. Videos with 10 top tips on how to sleep better, eat better, be better. And perhaps the hardest of all… the celebrities & influencers she admired all coming out to share their own mental health stories.
She knew those stories were meant to help - meant to humanise actors and singers and writers and show her that she wasn’t alone. But with every scroll was just another reminder that everyone seemed to be struggling. And with every like, every follow, every click through to the creator’s profile, she was accidentally telling the algorithm that this content made her feel better. It didn’t.
Because when you’re 16 or 17 and struggling with your mental health, people (parents, teachers, therapists... everyone) all want to tell you that it will get better. You hear it so often that you start to internalise it, but by attaching “better” to certain milestones. When you’ve got to university… got your dream job… met your life partner… had children… the idea that at some point it will finally all click into place, and until then you just have to hold on.
But for the girl, as she continued scrolling, it felt like that promise was being undone in real time. Journalists in her dream roles sharing their experiences with depression. Mothers opening up about the struggles they never expected. People with the lives she was holding out for all quietly unravelling in the comment sections. Constant noise telling her that these milestones alone wouldn’t be enough to help her.
Someone dropped a mug in the cafe, and she stopped for a moment. She caught my eye and I gave her a gentle smile. I could see she was hurting but I didn’t go over to check in or tell her it would all be okay. She wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
But as I stood to leave, I caught my own reflection in the window behind her - calm, happy, able to manage my own mental health and know when to stop scrolling. Decaf cappuccino in hand.
And then when I blinked, she was gone. Of course she was. She is me - waiting for her life to really begin. And I am her - still learning and recovering, but content with the fact it already has.”
