Michelle Pogyo’s family went to mass every Sunday. Even though the St. Anns Church was only a five minute drive from her house, Michelle’s mother woke her up at the brink of dawn to braid her hair, tugging and twisting it to a torturous perfection to see God.
“You have to look good for Diosito if you want his bendiciones mija,” her mother would tell her. You have to look good for God if you want him to give you any blessings, daughter.
“God will heal all,” is the phrase Michelle’s mother always tells her. So every Sunday Michelle sits through an hour of her hair being pulled, all for God. She sits through the hour-long ceremony in a scratchy dress that leaves rashes on her legs, for God. And she walks down the narrow aisle to the pastor to receive communion in shoes so tight they leave her feet with blisters. She did it all for God.
In her parent’s home country of Ecuador, as in most South American countries, religion is more than a practice. It’s a way of life. Catholicism–the church, praying twice a day, everyday–is the key to a happy, successful life. With God by your side, you are protected. That’s what Michelle learned from her mother.
But Michelle didn’t believe God held all her answers, or could cure her of the sadness forming in the back of her mind. She did it because she was afraid. Afraid that if she didn’t perform the religious rituals her mother taught her, God would abandon her. But she wondered: If God was so powerful, why did she feel so sad? If God promised to take care of her, why did she think about ending her life?
••••••
Michelle had her first panic attack on the first day of sixth grade. At the time, she didn’t know what it was.
For most of her school life she was “the quiet girl.” She sat in the back of the room, kept to herself, never speaking a word unless she was spoken to first. But this year, she was determined to walk into class on this first day as a new person. She would make new friends, be popular, and not let the thoughts of self-harm invade her mind.
She walked into the classroom with her head high. But her good mood evaporated the moment she saw her homeroom teacher: Mrs. Chumanova. A German immigrant, Mrs. Chumanova was famous for extra homework, hard tests, and indoor recess — the ultimate punishment for sixth graders. Mrs. Chumanova had thick round glasses, and an accent that boomed through the hallways. Mrs. Chumanova scared her, and the closer she got to her desk, the harder it was to breathe. All those thoughts that she was blocking out came rushing in.
I won’t be different here. I’m useless. I can’t change. Everyone is looking at me.
Then darkness.
Michelle passed out on the floor of her first class of middle school. Not a great start to reinventing herself.
She woke up in the nurse’s office with an ice pack on her forehead. Her mom was on her way to pick her up, angry that she had to leave work as a housekeeper where she barely made enough cash in a day to support her family. Michelle grew more disappointed in herself.
“I just thought, I’ll never do anything right. So what’s the point in even praying when God didn’t give a fuck about me,” said Michelle remembering that day. “That was the start of the worst of it.”
••••••
The 60 million person Latin community in the United States includes people from Central America, South America, and the Caribbean. As with any widespread community, there are shared cultural factors that connect people. For Latines it’s generally religion, language, and a belief in the importance of hard work and close-knit families. Mental health is seldom spoken of.
Historically, mental illness was stigmatized in the United States. Those with anxiety, depression, or suicidal tendencies were belittled. But in recent decades there has been a movement to provide support, education, advocacy, and research services for those struggling with mental health. These modifications led to the demystification of mental health for non-Hispanic populations. Today, of the one in five U.S. citizens that experience mental illness each year, over 51% of white Americans receive some form of treatment.
Mental disorders often begin in childhood. Research shows that over 50% of all mental illnesses begin by age 14. Young children who experience recurrent neglect are particularly vulnerable to the pitfalls of mental health. Studies have found that over 22% of Latine children struggle with depression, while fewer than 8% receive treatment.
The stigma of mental health has not subsided in Latine populations as Latine youth continue to get less help than their counterparts. Mental health is a taboo in Latine culture. Older generations don’t believe in the need to “talk about your feelings.” To them, there’s no need to sit around and mope about being “sad” when you can pray your problems away to God. And you bet you can forget about therapy or medication. That’s an even bigger hoax.
As of 2010, Hispanic populations had the highest uninsured rates, with nearly one third lacking coverage, compared to the mere 13.1% of white families without insurance. Without this financial support, treatment is less likely, and these conditions have proven to worsen.
••••••
If you want to understand why depressed Latine youth aren’t getting treatment, you might look at Michelle Pogyo’s story. Michelle has struggled with her mental health as long as she remembers, suffering from everything from anxiety and depression to an eating disorder. “Sometimes it feels like I’ll never move forward.” Michelle told me last December. “That’s my biggest fear.”
Being a first-generation American only adds to the pressure Michelle feels to make her mark. Today, at 25-years old, Michelle is the spitting image of a “traditional Ecuadorian” girl: dark hair, black eyes, tan skin, and a nose with a small bump in the middle, thanks to her great-grandfather, Juanito. The eldest child, she is her family’s pride and joy. But with it came expectations. She had to excel in school. Honor roll was a must. She had to play three sports, and pray at least twice a day.
When Michelle’s parents moved to the United States from Cuenca, Ecuador in 1991, they carried only a few hundred dollars and enough rice and beans for their journey. A friend of Michelle’s father took them in, and for years, they worked cleaning houses and on construction sites. They finally scraped together enough money for a small apartment in Westchester, New York. At the time, the area was riddled with crime, making the place dirt cheap. But it was their home. A home they built from nothing.
The daily struggles of being an immigrant in America are a burden to parents and children alike. While the children of immigrants may not have endured the traumas of migration, the generational effects of economic and social inequalities exacerbate their mental health problems.
Michelle was raised in Dutchess County New York, a predominantly white area. Her parents were afraid Michelle would lose touch with her Ecuadorian heritage and did everything they could to ensure she was connected to it. “Until I was six, I could only speak Spanish,” Pogyo tells me. “But they didn’t just bring their language with them. The strict, overprotective, forced-bond culture came too.”
So, while Michelle grew up in a loving household, with an annoying yet loveable younger brother, she was never able to tell her parents her darkest secret: she wanted to kill herself.
Michelle has struggled with her mental health since before she could remember, suffering with everything from anxiety and depression to an eating disorder. No one else in her family seemed to have the same problems. They seemed to get out of bed every morning, and were able to eat meals without fearing how they’d look if they had one bite too many. They didn’t sneak to the bathroom at family events, just to breathe, so they wouldn’t pass out on the dance floor. They didn’t think that their lives were pointless. Michelle did. And she didn’t know why.
Latine children are unlikely to discuss their depression with their family. “I tried to talk to my mom about how I wasn’t feeling well, and it was affecting my grades. She just got mad at me and took my phone away,” sighs Michelle. Her parents taught her that talking about mental health, dealing with depression, or even thinking about getting help, was wrong “When I mentioned therapy to my mom, she said I should just pray to God for help. But God can’t help the chemical imbalance in my brain,” Michelle said.
By 13, Michelle knew she wasn’t living up to her family’s expectations. She got her first D on an earth science test in the 7th grade. For her, it might as well have been an F. She was a straight A student, with the occasional B on the days when she felt especially anxious. “They put a lot of pressure on me to get perfect grades, go to the perfect school, and get the perfect job,” she told me. “That anxiety ate me alive.”
She knew the definitions of every ecosystem in New York, but spent the night before the test crying as thoughts of pain and suffering filled her mind. Michelle considered hiding the D from her parents, but the school required that anything below a C had to get signed by a parent. She could forge her parent’s signature, but that would be lying, and lying was a sin. She knew if she sinned, God might let more thoughts of pain in.
So she screwed up her courage and did the last thing she wanted to do. She told her mother the truth. Hopefully her parents would see how hard she had tried and comfort their daughter with a hug. It was not to be. “Esto es lo que pasa cuando no resas,” her mother scolded. This is what happens when you don’t pray enough. And with that, Michelle was grounded for 2 weeks and told to pray to God. He would help her more next time. Her parents’ loving, supportive arms slipped further away.
••••••
Michelle bottled up her feelings for years. She recalls three key turning points in her journey with mental health.
At 18, she began taking medication for her anxiety behind their backs. Klonopin, Valium — the typical prescription for anxiety disorders. The panic attacks subdued, her heart rate didn’t shoot up at lunch with friends, and she could drive to the mall without pulling over to catch her breath. She felt like a normal teen again.
But at 21, the effects of the pills faded. So, Michelle turned to the only form of help she thought she could get without her parents knowing: a therapy app called TalkSpace.
Branded as “therapy for all” with their trademarked “unlimited messaging therapy,” TalkSpace markets themselves as an innovative therapeutic conversation starter, selling ways to connect with listened therapists online. In reality, their terms of use in the fine print actually decline any and all responsibilities for providing therapy. The overwhelming number of negative reviews on the App Store claim TalkSpace charges people for sessions where the therapist never responded, up-charged their cards for hours they were not online, and for some like Michelle, actually made their anxiety worse than before. Of course Michelle didn’t know this when she signed up.
“I found a facebook ad for a therapist online you can just text with,” she laughs. “I didn’t want my parents to know I was seeing someone so I had to be sneaky and find something that wouldn’t show up on their insurance bill.”
For a few weeks Michelle spoke with a therapist under the username “RuthieC1995.” Michelle was excited to open up to a mental health professional who would listen to her. After their first session, RuthieC1995 told Michelle that her weight was the root of her problems, and that if she lost some, she would be okay. She immediately deleted the app. “At that point I knew the app was a joke. I was only really mad because I paid $1.99 for it,” Michelle jokes.
Michelle received a degree in Business Administration from Mercy College, and got a job as a bank teller at a Dutchess United Credit Union, a few minutes from her house. She made new friends, and found a nice boyfriend. She hoped her depression had been a passing “phase.” But deep down, she knew it was always there.
She reconnected with her family, and reluctantly moved back home. She knew home was a “toxic environment,” but had a strategy to navigate it. Silence. “Because I didn’t talk about anything I was dealing with, there was nothing to argue about.” Still, she fell asleep every night to thoughts of self-doubt and self-harm; slapping a rubber band on her leg until it was red or perhaps running a blade along her wrist. “I thought I could almost outrun it,” said Michelle. “But I didn’t know how to escape.”
Then 23, she’d been living at home for a few years. When she moved home after college, she assumed she would be treated like an adult, without a curfew or a barrage of questions if she stayed out past 10 p.m. But nothing had changed.
The trauma she had buried returned with every comment her mother made about her weight. Her father questioned where her life was going, and criticized her because she had a bachelor’s degree, and not a masters. “Mira a tu prima Paola. Ella sabe lo que está haciendo. Tu no quieres hacer nada,” he’d scold. Look at your cousin Paola. She knows what she’s doing. You don’t want to do anything, do you?
She thought she had accomplished it all. The first in her family to graduate from college; a managerial position at a corporate job; church every Sunday. She had enough savings to move out, but had agreed to live at home to please her family. She realized that nothing she did would be good enough. Despite all her hard work, she was still a disappointment to her family.
Her parents’ comments gradually chipped away at the walls she’d built up to protect herself. Michelle knew they weren’t intentionally hurting her. Her mom cooked her breakfast every morning, and called throughout the day to ask how she was doing. Her father sent her funny memes he found on Facebook to make her smile. But under the weight of her depression, those small, happy moments weren’t enough to save her.
So, on a sunny May morning, a few weeks before her 24th birthday, Michelle attempted suicide. She got ready for work as usual. She was running late, but was able to eat before heading out the door, thanks to the pancakes wrapped in aluminum foil her mom left for her. Her younger cousin Gabby called her before her lunch break. She was applying to college, and asked if Michelle could edit her essays. Michelle agreed. She didn’t want Gabby to know that after today, she wouldn’t be around anymore.
Suicide had been on her mind for the past few months. She felt there was no escape, no one who could help. Not her parents, or God, or even a stranger on an iPhone app. She wasn’t dreaming about leaving her family and friends behind. That part ripped her heart to pieces. But she was already gone. She’d been gone for months. Her mind was no longer her own. It was owned by her inner demons that tormented her 24/7. She thought she had no escape. Now she did.
At 4:00 p.m., she tidied up her desk, and walked to her car. She knew how she would do it. Pills. They were easy and painless. She’d just fall asleep in her car. She couldn’t do it at home because she didn’t want her parents to find her. She didn’t want that image of her in their heads forever. Michelle figured if she was in her car, the police would find her. Her parents would never have to see her like that.
Michelle didn’t do a lot of preliminary research partly because she thought it was a fairly straightforward process based on what she’d seen on TV, and partly because she was scared she’d wimp out.
Where to buy the pills? She could go to Walmart, but that was a 20 minute drive, and she only had a few more miles in her tank. She didn’t want to delay her mission by stopping for gas. So she went to CVS, where she had a “buy-one-get-one half off” on headache and heartache medication.
She figured a bottle of Tylenol would do the trick. She took three pills at first, swallowing them with the help of a red Gatorade. She waited an hour. Taylor Swift’s new album “Reputation” had just come out. An avid “swiftie,” Michelle put it on shuffle and leaned back. After another hour, she took another three. She figured that would do the job.
As she drifted off, Michelle remembered all the good in her life. The family vacations to Ecuador, where she swam in caves, and broke her ankle diving off a cliff. The dinners her boyfriend cooked for her every Friday night. The game nights her cousins hosted, where she’d let Gabby win, even though she could easily beat her.
She thought about leaving notes, but didn’t want to make her family or friends any sadder. That morning, she folded her laundry so her mom wouldn’t have to; she cleaned her car out so her dad wouldn’t worry about it.
She would miss them. But in death she would find peace, and freedom from the monsters of her mind. She drifted off to sleep, not knowing that it took more than 15 pills to kill herself.
She woke up to the sound of several cops knocking on the car window. It was 3 a.m. “They asked me what I was doing in the back parking lot of the CVS at that hour,” she remembers. “Because I was in my formal business clothes they thought I just fell asleep and told me to get home safe. They never suspected they were waking up a girl who just tried to end her life.”
“Thank God I didn’t do enough research,” Michelle laughs. Driving home, she kept repeating to herself “I’m alive, I’m alive.” She pulled into her driveway as the sun came up.
As she lay in bed, tears poured from her eyes. She cried until she had no tears left. She wasn’t sad she was alive, she was grateful her suicide attempt didn’t work. She knew she wasn’t done with her depression, but also knew everything from now on was going to be different. “I was so scared of what I just did, that I felt like I was handed a second chance,” Michelle said.
•••
What do you do after you attempt suicide? Just go back to your daily activities? As if it never happened? Michelle had no clue what her next step was. “I thought I hit rock bottom. I figured I could only go up from there.”
Luckily Michelle had something bigger to worry about. The Coronavirus pandemic. Her parents just had another baby girl in January, and couldn’t risk infecting her. So for months, like millions across the country, Michelle and her family were locked in their home.
Surprisingly, it was a good distraction from the events that had taken place the weeks before. Michelle’s family wasn’t arguing anymore because they feared the virus could kill them. Michelle did nothing but watch Marvel movies and FaceTime her friends.
But then stores started opening up again. And the fear of getting infected subsided with talk of a potential covid vaccine. People started going back to work, and the peace in Michelle’s house that grew from the fear of losing each other made room for fighting again. “I promised myself this time would be different,” Michelle sighs. “I wasn’t gonna let history repeat itself, and I was willing to try anything to make sure of it — behind my parents back of course.”
All Michelle knew about therapy was from the stereotypes on television shows: you sit on someone’s couch and talk to them about every problem in your life while they take illegible notes on their pad. Then your time is up and you leave. Simple. In-person therapy was never an option because she didn’t have her own insurance. If she ever considered using her parent’s insurance they might see it and get angry that she resorted to America’s radical thinking on mental health instead of drinking some tea and praying to God.
But now, Michelle had a big girl job with her own business cards. She could use her own insurance to see a therapist without her parents ever finding out. The pandemic didn’t leave very many options. In-person therapy was no longer available. Instead, virtual meetings were on the rise as a replacement. But Michelle was afraid the same traumatizing texting-therapy experience would repeat itself. She just wanted to dip her toes back into the pool of mental health support before diving head first and potentially getting hurt again.
Little did she know an instagram post advertised on her explore page would open her world to social media therapy, a rising phenomenon being used to demystify mental health online, and change the course of her life as she knew it.
••••••
Even in “normal” times, Michelle spent a lot of time scrolling through her phone. Instagram quickly became Michelle’s app of choice. She found recipe pages, profiles for book recommendations, and most importantly, Dr. Leslie Celis’s page on mental health advocacy and BIPOC healing for the Latine community.
A queer Latine psychologist and podcast co-host, Dr. Leslie Celis created her instagram page during the pandemic to foster conversations about mental health for the Latine community. “The field of psychology wasn’t necessarily made with us in mind,” Celis sighed. Ironic, considering she says the Latine population struggles to talk about this topic the most.
A first-generation Colombian American, Celis was born and raised in Hollywood California. With no guidance through her struggles with mental health growing up, Celis believes social media can be a powerful tool for Latine communities who want to slowly learn more about mental health. “It helps you demystify the process,” she said about her Instagram page. “The more exposure you have to something, the less scary it seems.”
Celis says instagram is a great tool because it provides condensed, accessible, and free information. With the help of aesthetically-pleasing infographics and 20 second-videos backed by viral music that helps increase page visitations, Celis shares posts on suicide prevention, how to begin conversations with your Latine family on mental health, and counseling resources.
From her page you can learn anything from 5 quick tips to talking about depression with your strict Latine family to how to schedule a free 20 minute consultation with her on trauma, stress, or anxiety. Celis says that instagram pages focused on deconstructing mental health stigmas creates community among young Latine people. “My mission was just to give more education and make it less threatening to talk about.”
Michelle began following Dr. Celis in July 2020. After a few weeks, similar pages focused on mental health advocacy for Latine populations popped up. Before she knew it, she was following over 15 psychologists turned social media influencers.
Turns out, there is an entire movement of Latine-based psychologists using instagram and social media to enlighten younger generations about mental health. They all have the same goal: debunking stigmas about mental health in the Latine community and sharing resources to educate and support those learning about mental wellness. In addition to their private practices, these psychologists are sharing mental health resources in the form of memes, cutely-designed posts, and short video-clips. In over a year of posting, Celis has accrued over 500 followers. Others, like Dr. Lisette Sanchez, a Latina psychologist and speaker, have gained over 2,000 followers.
Hoping to “#erasethestigma” behind mental health for Latine communities, Dr. Sanchez says she started her instagram page because, “the more information that’s out there, the more people seek help and get support.” As a society, Dr. Sanchez says we are eating a more digital space in the way we connect. With her instagram page, she works to empower BIPOC and first-generation professionals to be their best selves and break harmful cycles of mental health. Similarly, Dr. Sanchez posts educational instagram resources about generational trauma in the Latine community, setting boundaries given the influence of Latine culture, and links to schedule a free consultation with herself.
These instagram mental health advocacy pages are especially unique in the sense they aren’t just made for younger generations who are already on social media. Latine psychologists are making bi-lingual posts in an effort to make the already easily readable and accessible information available specifically for older generations of spanish-speakers such as parents and grandparents. By writing their posts in both English and Spanish, younger Latine followers can send a post about social anxiety, for example, to their parents who can then read the post in their native language. This way the information is not overwhelming for the parent, and doesn’t put the child at risk for interacting with mental health professionals — an act that is mostly negatively held among older generations. And that is what Michelle did.
Another Latine instagram-based psychologist, Deniss Pleiner, who focuses on parental healing and first-generation mental health advocacy, made a post titled, “What is therapy?” She also created a post in Spanish with the same title: “Qué es Terapia?”
The post includes four slides:
- La terapia es para todos — Therapy is for everyone.
- Ayuda a sanar heridas emocionales y desarrollar comportamientos sanos para vivir una vida sana — Help to heal emotional scars and break down stigmas to live a healthy life.
- Hay varios lugares donde conseguir terapia. Hay consultorios privados y también clínicas en la comunidad — There are many places to find therapy. There are private consultations and clinics in your community.
- Se aprende a entender sus sentimientos, como hablar con los demás sobre sus sentimientos, procesar traumas, y cómo manejar la vida para que sienta más en control y más feliz — You learn to understand your feelings, how to talk with others about your emotions, process traumas, and how to navigate life to feel more in control and happier.
The post is simple, yet effective. Michelle liked it, and DM’d it to her mom, who had just joined instagram to share pictures with family overseas (she also wanted to follow Jenifer Lopez). Because the post was in Spanish, Michelle’s mom was able to read it. When Michelle got home later that day, her mom told her the post was “interesting” and to “send her more.”
For the next year, Michelle kept sending her mom posts like this: Mitos incorrectos de la terapia — Incorrect myths about therapy; Estilos de comunicación — Styles of communication; Hábitos de relaciones saludables — Habits of stable relationships. The posts chipped at her mom’s preconceived notions about mental health bit by bit, without her even realizing it. One afternoon, she made a suggestion that even shocked Michelle. Mira encontraron más sobre tus problemas. Tal vez debes hablar con un doctor a ver si te pueden ayudar. “Look, they found more information about your problems. Maybe you should go talk to a doctor to see if they can help you.”
These instagram posts, with their cute fonts and floral graphics, taught Michelle’s mom that therapy may in fact be a viable solution to mental health needs. Even if it took years, a few social media graphics informed her in creative, unrecognizable ways. To this end, these instagram pages are helping bridge the gap of knowledge between Latine youth and their spanish-speaking families.
“Sometimes it’s hard to understand if you haven’t been educated on it,” said Dr. Celis. “Sometimes you miss people by using a different language.” By creating something comfortable and understandable, instagram-focused psychologists are opening space for people of both languages to talk about seemingly scary things and gain education. And it’s working.
••••••
Michelle was reluctant to tell her mom she was meeting regularly with a therapist. She wasn’t trying to hide it, but she didn’t want to blurt it out either. More like she didn’t know how to say it. Despite her parent’s growing knowledge of treatment’s benefits, Michelle was still scared that they would resent her for seeking outside help instead of just going to church and praying for salvation, like they’d always told her.
After enough scrolling Michelle found Raquel Carrasquillo on Instagram. Her services center around personal development and restoring a healthy mind-body connection for women of color. Like the others, Carrasquillo focuses on her client’s cultural lens and values to promote growth and healing. She also offered a free consultation that Michelle could not pass up.
The sessions were more fulfilling than Michelle ever imagined. Simple questions like, “how are you feeling after a long day at work,” brought tears to her eyes — no one every really bothered to ask. With Raquel’s help, Michelle came to terms with the fact that she’s allowed to not feel okay. That she’s allowed to set boundaries with her family. She learned that saying no, and giving herself space to breathe, is not her being selfish, but respecting her mind and body — something that she had never thought to do before. After three months, Raquel gave Michelle a homework assignment: tell her parents about her suicide attempt.
In the year since her attempt, Michelle had tried not to think about it. Still, every time she passed a dark car in an empty parking lot, her heart skipped a beat. She tried to get out of the unthinkable task. “I rescheduled our family session four times,” Michelle joked. “Raquel said she’d charge me a $100 cancellation fee if I didn’t show up with them for the fifth one.”
On April 2nd, 2022 Michelle and her parents sat down in front of her computer. As they waited for the zoom to begin, Michelle could feel the sweat dripping down her face, her cheeks turning beet red. She heard the sound of her foot tapping the floor.
She told them she had been seeing a therapist. To her surprise, her father didn’t say a word. He barely tore his eyes from his soccer game before groaning an “okay” and looking back. Michelle’s mom wanted to know more.
To ease breaking the news, Michelle purposefully sent her Raquel’s posts for a few weeks. Her mom loved them. Especially the ones where Raquel would set JLO’s music as the background songs on her posts about self-care. When Michelle finally told her who her therapist was, Michelle’s mom thought Raquel was famous. So she was a little more okay with it.
The session began with a healing circle. Everyone said something good and bad about their day. Michelle didn’t hear a single thing anyone said. Her mind was waiting for the moment she would have to confess a secret she knew her parents would hate her for. They would hate her for not going to church to pray for herself. They would blame her for not maintaining a close relationship with God. Mostly, Michelle was scared they would be disappointed in her.
“What’s scary in the Latine community is culturally theres a negative belief that if you’re suicidal or depressed they’re like ‘what’s wrong with you?’” Raquel explained. “But it’s absolutely essential to educate ourselves on that. Especially older Latine generations who never had the opportunity to learn about it.”
Michelle prepared a million different ways to gently reveal the truth. Instead, when the moment came she blurted out, “I was listening to Taylor Swift in the car and then I tried to kill myself.” Michelle’s mom couldn’t tear her eyes away from Michelle. She didn’t say a word, as if her daughter would disappear if she looked away for even a second. Michelle looked over at her dad. For the first time in her entire life, she saw him cry.
He grabbed her and shoved her into his arms. Michelle had never been held so tightly. Tears fell from her dad’s face onto hers. Her arm was pulled in the other direction. Her mom latched onto her. Michelle figured the yelling would begin any second now. But what came next, was only apologies. Perdoname mija, perdoname. “Forgive me baby, forgive me.” Her mother’s tears joined her dad’s on her face. Te amo. Por favor nunca nos dejas. Te amo, mija. “I love you. Please never leave us. I love you, my daughter.”
Michelle wiped her face dry. Now her tears were in the mix. She never felt so overcome with love and acceptance.
Raquel thanked her family for opening up and with that, Michelle’s session time was up. She closed the laptop and sat in silence with her parents for what seemed like hours.
They didn’t ask for the details of her suicide attempt. Maybe because they wanted to respect her privacy. Or because they couldn’t bear to hear the heartbreaking details of the day they almost lost their daughter. Her parents clung onto Michelle like she would actually die this time if they let go.
After they settled down, Michelle questioned what to do next. Raquel suggested going out to dinner.
Michelle’s dad hugged her forehead, stood up, and asked, “want to go to Chilis?” As they stood up to walk out the door Michelle tried to leg go of his hand, but he held on tighter than before. On the car ride Michelle’s mom asked, “do you think you can make an appointment for me to talk to Raquel?”
For the first time, Michelle realized she did just was she was supposed to do after her suicide attempt. “I got better for myself. And I got better for my family,” she said. “I broke the anti-mental health cycle for my immigrant parents — people who once swore therapy was the devil. And I did it with a few instagram posts.”