My parents emigrated to the United States from India in 1991, and I was born four years later. We lived in an area where there are a lot of South Asian families, so I grew up ingrained in my Indian culture. Many of us celebrated the same holidays and visited the same places of worship.
Terrified, I ran to a nearby park and hid in the bushes, where I had what I later realized was a full-blown panic attack. My parents immediately scheduled an appointment with our primary care provider, who started me on antidepressants and referred me to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist diagnosed me with depression, anxiety and auditory hallucinations. Then, I began seeing a therapist.
Still, I found ways to rebel against my mental health struggles. I told the therapist what I believed he wanted to hear. The therapist was a lovely person, but he was also an old white guy. Looking back, I wonder, “What could he possibly know about being a 15-year-old Indian girl in America?” I connected with student mental health advocates and we founded a student chapter of the National Alliance on Mental Illness on campus. I began speaking out about my challenges and serving on panels focused on mental health.