It’s Okay to Ask for Help

 I know I’ve been MIA for a while.

To say that my mental health went on a downward spiral is fairly accurate.

At the beginning of August, I developed a debilitating migraine that lasted for 10 days. It led to two doctors’ appointments, an emergency room visit, and 10 days spent in bed — literally in bed. I slept most of the day. I did nothing. I didn’t care about doing anything. The darkest thoughts started taking over, and it was at that point that I realised I needed help. When I look back on a picture I took during this time, I don't even recognise myself.

A week later, I admitted myself to a mental health clinic, where I stayed for 21 days.

To say that it was one of the best decisions I have ever made would be an understatement. I am incredibly grateful for the time, the support, the people I met, and the process I went through.

I was incredibly nervous going in. The thought of sharing a room with complete strangers pushed my anxiety to its limits, but I was so low — the lowest I had been in years — and I knew that I had to do this. For myself, but also for the people I love.

The programme was incredible. In the beginning, I found some parts incredibly difficult. There were moments when I wanted to retreat into myself, and moments when facing certain things was uncomfortable and painful. But along the way, I met some of the most incredible people from all walks of life.

I had the most amazing roommates who somehow managed to make me laugh and brighten my day, even on the days when I didn't feel like smiling. I learned so much from the people around me, from the therapists, and from the programme itself. More importantly, I learned things about myself that I think I had been avoiding for a very long time.

One of the biggest things for me was finally allowing myself to go back on medication.
I had put it off for years. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that needing medication meant I had somehow failed, or that people would judge me for it. I don’t know why I allowed myself to carry that belief for so long.

The reality is that medication has changed my quality of life in ways I cannot fully explain.
My overall mood is better. My anxiety is more manageable. I sleep through the night and wake up feeling rested. For years, I was functioning on three or four hours of sleep a night — on a good day — and somehow convincing myself that this was normal.

It wasn't.

And I think that is one of the biggest lessons I have taken from all of this: sometimes surviving is not the same as living.

I spent a very long time believing that I just needed to push through, that I needed to be strong, that there were other people who needed me and I could deal with myself later.

But eventually, your mind and your body tell you that later has arrived.

So, I chose myself.

I chose to ask for help. I chose to step away from everything for a while. I chose to be vulnerable, even when it terrified me. And I chose to accept that taking care of my mental health is not selfish, weak or something I should be ashamed of.

I’m not going to pretend that everything is suddenly perfect. I’m still figuring things out. I still have difficult days, and I know this is a journey rather than a quick fix.

But I’m here.

I’m sleeping. I’m laughing. I’m functioning. I’m finding pieces of myself again.

And, perhaps most importantly, I’m learning that I don’t have to wait until I completely fall apart before I allow myself to ask for help.

If you’ve been struggling quietly, please know that asking for help doesn't make you weak. Sometimes, it is the bravest thing you can do.

I’m still finding my way back to myself.
But for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I’m on my way.

June 30th

 I have wrestled with whether I should say anything about what is happening in our country.

As an almost middle-aged, middle-class white South African woman, I questioned whether my voice belonged in this conversation. The reality is that what is happening has not happened to me personally. I have not lived the fear that so many others are experiencing.

But perhaps that is exactly why I should speak.

Because humanity should never depend on whether something affects us personally.

Over the past weeks, leading up to June 30th, and still today, I have watched with a heavy heart as families have lived in fear, people have been forced to leave the places they call home, and communities have become increasingly divided. Behind every headline is a human being. A mother trying to protect her children. A father trying to provide for his family. An elderly person wondering where they will sleep. A child who simply wants to feel safe.

It is impossible not to feel heartbroken.

I understand that people are frustrated. I understand the fear around crime, unemployment, and the very real hardships facing so many South Africans. Those frustrations deserve to be heard.

But I cannot accept that directing our anger towards immigrants—whether documented or undocumented—is the answer.

Our country's greatest challenges did not begin with the people who crossed our borders in search of safety or opportunity. Corruption, failing infrastructure, unemployment, inequality, and poor governance have been eroding South Africa for years. Blaming vulnerable people may be emotionally satisfying to some, but it does not fix the problems that brought us here.

If anything, it distracts us from asking harder questions of those entrusted with leading our country.

Many people also underestimate just how difficult it is to immigrate legally or seek asylum. The process is often painfully slow, requiring countless visits to government offices, endless queues, delayed paperwork, and months—sometimes years—of uncertainty. It is easy to say, "Do it legally," but much harder to appreciate what that journey actually looks like for someone trying to survive while navigating it.

None of this means our immigration system should not have rules. Every sovereign nation has the right to secure its borders and administer immigration laws fairly. But there is a profound difference between enforcing the law and abandoning our compassion. We should be able to uphold both.

Jobs should be awarded based on character, skill, dedication, and the ability to do the work—not simply on where someone happened to be born. Hard work, integrity, and kindness know no nationality.

South Africa has always called itself the Rainbow Nation.

That title was never about pretending our differences don't exist. It was about believing that our diversity could be our greatest strength. It was about choosing reconciliation when division would have been easier. It was about recognising one another's humanity, even when our histories, cultures, and languages were different.

Lately, it feels as though we are forgetting that.

We are becoming so consumed by fear and frustration that we are beginning to see one another as enemies instead of neighbours. And history has shown us, time and again, where that road leads.

I don't want to raise my children in a country where fear speaks louder than compassion. I don't want them to believe that someone's birthplace determines their worth. I want them to grow up believing that courage is choosing kindness when hatred seems easier, and that strength is measured not by who we exclude, but by how we treat the most vulnerable among us.

We can demand accountability from our leaders without turning on one another.

We can want secure borders without celebrating suffering.

We can protect our communities without losing our humanity.

And we can disagree with one another without resorting to violence, hatred, or dehumanisation.

I know this post won't change everyone's mind.

But if it reminds even one person to pause before judging, to listen before condemning, or to choose empathy over anger, then it will have been worth writing.

Because the South Africa I still believe in is one where justice and compassion walk hand in hand.

Where dignity belongs to everyone.

And where peace is always louder than hate.