Ivy Day: a day once a year when thousands of students await the admissions decisions of one or multiple of the Ivy League schools. On April 6, 2021, decision letters came out at 7 p.m., but I was too anxious and didn’t open mine until 8. Once I worked up the courage, I opened my letters in order from Brown, Cornell, Columbia, UPenn, and Yale. Rejection. Waitlist. Waitlist. Waitlist. Waitlist. Disappointed, I opened Harvard last.
I remember how ecstatic I was when I opened the letter to an explosion of crimson confetti; it was a physical manifestation of my hard work over four years of high school. I called my parents, guidance counselor, and teachers to share the good news. However, after the initial burst of excitement from Decision Day wore away, and the news of my accomplishment started to spread, each subsequent congrats brought a nagging sense of dread. It’s one thing to celebrate getting into college, and another to start preparing for it. This was a new experience I was going to have to adapt to, quickly.
Except… I didn’t adapt. As a matter of fact, I got a 41% on my first-ever exam at Harvard. From the first day, I struggled with social anxiety, panic attacks, and depression. I would walk into my math class and stare blankly at the exercise on the paper, hearing the other students chatter and breeze through it together while I held back the fiery tears threatening to escape. Often, I would have to leave class as I felt the wave of a panic attack approaching because I didn’t understand the concepts, hard as I tried. It was such a different experience from high school, where I enjoyed learning, did well academically, and was able to handle over six classes each quarter as well as multiple extracurriculars. In college, I felt like a failure: How was I supposed to make my parents proud when I couldn’t even get through one class without crying?
I had never been to therapy, but I knew it was something I should seriously consider because the weight of the pressure I was putting on myself was too much to bear alone. When I went home that December for winter break, I did some research on my symptoms and realized I identified strongly with the characterization of ADHD (attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder): I had difficulty concentrating and staying on task, I struggled with time management and meeting deadlines, and I found it hard to start and finish a task from beginning to end. My struggles at school also seemed to stem from difficulty adapting to a new style of learning in college — unlike high school, I could no longer skate through classes by memorizing content for a test the weekend before. So, I decided to have a conversation with my dad. He studied psychology for his bachelor’s degree, so I assumed he would have some insight into what I was dealing with.Â
However, this conversation surrounding my anxiety, depression, and possible neurodivergence was a source of conflict. He was absolutely adamant that I was merely applying what I was learning in my own classes (considering I’m also a psychology major) to myself. “How are you going to diagnose yourself without an official test?” he asked me, followed by the classic dismissal many young people dealing with mental health problems often hear: “What do you have to be anxious or depressed about? You don’t have any bills.”
My dad and I had different variations of this conversation over the next several months, resulting in feeling confused and frustrated, me feeling invalidated, and both of us talking over one another. But, believe it or not, this was progress.Â
The intersectionality of my parents being from an older generation and also being Ghanaian immigrants played a role in this tension. In Ghanaian culture, mental health is seldom discussed: It’s locked behind the stigma associated with getting psychiatric help. There’s an unspoken rule that speaking about mental health brings shame to the family name that made it so that growing up, mental health wasn’t a topic that was even really mentioned, let alone discussed on a personal level.Â
Further, while mental health issues don’t discriminate by age, the experience and perception of mental health can vary significantly across generations. My parents grew up in a time when mental health issues were less understood and often stigmatized. In contrast, people from younger generations are more likely to be exposed to mental health education and advocacy. The gap between generations can feel insurmountably vast — especially if you’re a college student who still largely relies on your parents.Â
So, how could we bridge this gap? I started by simply talking.
While it was difficult at first, being open about my mental health with my family opened a door that had previously been shut by shame. It allowed me to admit I wasn’t OK, and I was able to get help. With the assistance of my dean and the support of my (reluctant) parents, I started seeing a therapist twice a week, and I got a psychiatrist. I also got tested for and diagnosed with Inattentive ADHD and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and was able to get disability accommodations such as testing in a separate location, using earplugs during exams, and deadline and attendance adjustments. Advocating for myself, even when others didn’t agree, was the best thing I could have done.Â
I also advocated for my younger siblings to get therapy, and after a while, my mom became comfortable enough to discuss her own struggles with mental health with me. This was incredibly eye-opening and allowed me to see her as a fellow human with similar struggles, not just on the pedestal of “mom.”
Through this experience, I learned that intergenerational conversations about mental health are essential for fostering understanding, reducing stigma, and building a supportive community – not just for younger generations, but for entire families. By coming together to discuss these difficult topics, we can learn from each other’s experiences and break down the barriers that prevent people from getting the help they need. When having a conversation with parents or someone from another generation about a difficult topic like mental health, frustration is a completely valid feeling. Keep in mind the intergenerational differences, but always advocate for yourself.
Since all of this happened, my mental health has improved drastically. My college experience has been more enjoyable since I got the help I needed, and I still meet with a therapist bi-weekly. I’m so glad I spoke up about what I was going through, because being vulnerable strengthened my relationship with my parents, and hopefully gave my younger siblings — and perhaps even some people who read my story — the vocabulary and courage to speak up as well.