“The secret of change is to focus all of your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new.” – Socrates

 

I can still remember the moment I learned that childhood trauma and chronic stress were major risk factors for mental health disorders. I was sitting in a graduate seminar during my first semester in the Department of Human Development and Family Studies at Auburn University.

 

That lecture didn’t just challenge me academically—it cracked open a personal truth I had been carrying for years.

 

It was the first time I understood how the environment I grew up in—the instability, the grief of losing my father to cancer, and the emotional chaos that followed—had shaped my mental and emotional health.

 

For a long time, I believed I was broken. That chronic anxiety, panic attacks, and periods of deep sadness were simply part of who I was. I didn’t yet have the language or the tools to understand those feelings, let alone heal from them.

 

Like many young people in America, I suffered in silence.

 

As I continued my graduate education and later earned my PhD in Public Health from Yale, I found myself driven by one question: Are there protective factors that can help buffer the effects of stress and adversity on health?

 

That question led me down a path of research, healing, and advocacy.

 

What the Research Shows

Through my studies, I explored faith-based coping, social connection, and resilience. I became a certified instructor in Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) through Yale Health and conducted research on stress and well-being among young adults. I also became certified as an Academic Success Coach, helping students not just survive college but thrive in it.

 

And what I discovered—not only through my personal journey but also through the data—is clear: Young people are in crisis.

 

The U.S. Surgeon General’s Advisory on Protecting Youth Mental Health (2021) sounded the alarm about a growing youth mental health crisis in the United States. Even before the COVID-19 pandemic, between 2009 and 2019, there was a 40% increase in persistent feelings of sadness and hopelessness among adolescents.

 

During the early months of the pandemic (March to October 2020), mental health–related emergency room visits rose by 31% for adolescents aged 12–17 compared to the same time period in 2019.

 

Building on these concerns, the CDC’s Youth Risk Behavior Survey (YRBS) 2023 Data Summary and Trends Report revealed that:

• 42% of high school students reported feeling persistently sad or hopeless in the past year—a sharp increase from 28% in 2011.
• 18% of students seriously considered suicide, 15% made a suicide plan, and 10% attempted suicide.
• Mental health disparities were greatest among marginalized youth: 57% of female students and 69% of LGBTQ+ students reported persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness.

These findings are not just statistics—they reflect the lived experiences of students across the country, many of whom are navigating overwhelming challenges without adequate support.

 

The Pandemic’s Lasting Impact

COVID-19 didn’t cause the youth mental health crisis—but it certainly intensified it.

 

Social isolation, educational disruption, grief, and economic uncertainty all created a perfect storm. We now have data from the CDC showing that emergency room visits for suspected suicide attempts among teen girls rose by 51% during the pandemic.

 

The crisis has finally been recognized at the federal level. Just this past week, the Presidential Commission to Make America Healthy Again (MAHA) released a groundbreaking assessment identifying key drivers behind the childhood chronic disease crisis. The report outlines the urgent need for cross-sector collaboration, investment in youth mental health services, and national recognition of the social determinants of health—including education, housing, and connection.

 

But what has surprised me most isn’t the data. It’s the silence.

 

Where Is the Unified Response?

As a public health researcher and someone with lived experience, I felt that the MAHA report should have been a monumental moment. A bipartisan rallying cry. Instead, I watched professional networks—especially in public health—remain largely silent. I asked myself, how could this be?

 

Youth mental health is not a partisan issue. It’s a public health emergency.

 

It deserves our attention, our urgency, and our collective response.

 

We need safe spaces for youth and young adults to talk about what they’re going through. We need federal recognition. We need policy. We need to stop pretending that resilience means carrying pain alone.

 

What We Can Do

As someone who found her voice through education, mentorship, and evidence-based mental health practices, I believe the solution lies in upstream, holistic prevention. That means:

• Expanding mentorship programs that combine emotional and academic support
• Integrating MBSR and CBT-based interventions in schools and universities
• Creating accessible, non-stigmatizing pathways for therapy and peer support
• Advocating for a dedicated federal initiative focused on young adult mental health and well-being

 

I recently launched the Student Well-Being Project (SWBP), a free virtual mentorship community rooted in the very tools that saved my own life: connection, emotional regulation, and self-awareness. We need more of these spaces. We need them everywhere.

 

A Personal Invitation

To those reading this: I know how scary it can feel to step into this conversation. But I also know the power of using your voice.

 

If you’re an educator, mentor, parent, policymaker, or student—this is your issue, too. Let’s make youth mental health a national priority, not just a fleeting headline.

 

We have the research. We have the stories. Now we need the courage to act.

 

Let’s rise to meet this moment—together.