Mikayla H.
Photography by Cat White
Before reading, please know this letter contains mentions of suicidal ideation and self harm. If you feel reading this kind of content may trigger you, we suggest you read another letter, such as this one.
If you’re reading this, I hope you learn to be as kind to yourself as you’ve been to everyone else, even with all your scars.
I don’t know what brought you here— only that something did. Maybe it was the mornings you hoped wouldn’t come, or the quiet weight of everything you’ve lost. But I know how life can wear you down in quiet, invisible ways. It’s not always one big thing. Sometimes it’s the buildup of a thousand small moments, when you feel like you’re too much and never enough, all at once. Even when people say they care and try to pull you from the flames, all you want is to stay in the fire, because the fire is familiar. It’s warm. I’ve been there. I still find myself there, some days. There were times when pain felt like the only thing that could make me feel something.
Moving from China to the U.S. during COVID was terrifying, but I saw college as a fresh start. I grew up believing love had to be earned through obedience, perfection, and never being a burden. There were weeks when my mother urged me to do three-day fasts to shrink myself into something more beautiful and acceptable. Even though I played rugby and needed that fuel, it felt like being smaller made me more worthy. Meanwhile, the constant pressure to succeed made me equate worth with achievement—as if every win was something I owed my parents for raising me, for their sacrifices, and for enduring the financial strain of building a life for me on teacher salaries, in a culture where pulling your weight was the least you could do in return.
That pressure didn’t stop at home. Our international school was no less demanding. In middle school, a classmate told me I had no value to society, and somewhere deep down, I believed him. By high school, it felt like success meant being exceptional at everything: getting A’s, winning awards, superscoring the SAT and the American Mathematics Competition (AMC), getting into an Ivy. That was the measure of worth—and, in subtle ways, even social hierarchy—among my peers. I internalized all of it. I still carry that with me.
Once at UVA, I initially found people I trusted. But as I explored my identity, my mental health began to spiral, and so did everything else. I started believing I was impossible to love. I sabotaged relationships, mistook healthy, mature boundaries as rejection, and interpreted silence as hatred. To this day, I still don’t know if the exclusion was intentional—if people I thought were friends truly didn’t want me around, or if I simply couldn’t fit in anymore because of how much I was unraveling. And maybe the hardest thing to admit is that I wanted my pain to be seen. I left the scars where no one could miss them, hoping someone—anyone—would notice how much I hated myself.
What followed were frequent hospitalizations for suicide attempts. The first time it happened, my mom said, “How do you expect to be a doctor when you’re like this?” When I begged for permission to try therapy, she told me counseling was an expensive excuse and something for people who weren’t strong-willed enough. And I believed her. For a long time, I thought kindness was something I could give to others, but not something I was allowed to give myself.
And even then, things didn’t get better right away. In fact, they got worse. I tried to fill the hole with any kind of company, even if it was just for a night. During those few semesters when I considered myself at absolute rock bottom, a peer who claimed to care for me coerced me. I eventually withdrew the Title IX report because I didn’t want to be blamed for ruining our staff dynamic. I started to believe that love and kindness didn’t exist. Or maybe I just didn’t deserve them.
But slowly, I started to change. I set boundaries. I stepped away from places that didn’t feel safe. I committed to therapy and began learning to be kind and patient with myself—trying to understand my diagnoses and regulate my emotions. I stopped chasing love from people who couldn’t, or didn’t want to, give it, and started offering grace to the version of me that kept trying anyway. Somehow, I ended up helping people—through EMT work, helping three cohorts of first-years grow as their Resident Advisor, and by pursuing a master’s degree in public health. I still think about that classmate who once told me I had no value. But now, I look at the life I’ve built—the people I’ve helped—and I know I love what I do.
For so long, I was afraid that opening my heart would only invite more pain. Maybe you’ve felt that too. But I found people who stayed and saved me, even when I couldn’t see myself clearly. I don’t know if I’d still be here without them. Now, in my final year of undergrad, I carry all of it with me—the scars, the relapses, the healing—and, alongside it, a relationship with someone who loves and supports me. I’ve learned that love and self-kindness don’t have to hurt. I make space for the ones who feel pushed to the side. I try to be the person I once needed, not just for others, but for myself too.
So if you’re reading this, know that kindness—especially the kind you give yourself—isn’t weakness. You don’t have to be unbreakable. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Maybe healing begins there—not all at once, but in the soft, steady moments when you choose to stay.
Mikayla H., University of Virginia
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