“You are a terrible person.”
“Nobody likes you.”
“Stop making mistakes.”
It’s 6:45 a.m. My alarm just went off, and my eyes haven’t even opened yet, but these thoughts are already running through my mind. I drag myself out of bed, even though every part of me wants to stay under the covers, and instantly start replaying all the mistakes I made yesterday. “Okay, today, when I raise my hand, I won’t raise it too high because that might upset someone, and that would make me a bad person.” This was my version of self-improvement: overanalyzing every move, every word, every gesture, and calling it personal growth. This was my life. This was my reality. This was Mental Health with Maddy—2016 edition.
Hi everyone! I’m Madison, but you can call me Maddy, and I am so happy you’re here. In January 2021, I started my own nonprofit organization called Mental Health with Maddy. In just five months, we’ve built a community of nearly 5,000 friends, all united by one shared experience: the journey of mental health.
Growing up, I attended a private Catholic elementary school that never talked about mental health. A school is supposed to be a safe space for learning and growth, but for me—and for many of my friends—it was anything but that. Some teachers, looking back now with years of therapy behind me, were the very cause of my anxiety disorder.
There truly aren’t enough words to describe how traumatic that school was. Every morning, I would wake up feeling unsafe. The fear of going to school—and the fear of some teachers and the principal—was overwhelming. We were taught all the ways people could be “thrown” into hell and constantly told things like, “Your family is lying to you—you need to believe me because I am helping you get to heaven.” Reading this now, you’re probably shocked. I was too. At first, I thought some of it was laughable. But I was a 13-year-old who had been hearing variations of this every day from age 10. Over time, fear became my reality. I became obsessed with avoiding hell. A 13-year-old’s biggest worry should be recess, not eternal damnation, but by then, fear had stolen my ability to function normally.
Fast forward a year. I had moved on to high school—a supportive, kind, and loving environment. On the surface, it seemed like a fresh start, a happy ending. But mentally, I was still trapped in that old, toxic world. Then, a teacher talked to our class about anxiety and its manifestations in teens. Listening to her, I thought, She is describing me perfectly. Armed with a BuzzFeed quiz and WebMD, I self-diagnosed an anxiety disorder. (Quick note: if you think you have a mental illness, please don’t follow my initial example—seek professional help immediately.)
A year later, a professional confirmed my self-diagnosis: I did have an anxiety disorder. In the meantime, I dove headfirst into learning everything I could about mental health—anxiety, depression, OCD, you name it. Originally, I wanted to be a teacher, but as I learned more, my passion shifted. I started a mental health awareness club in high school, running it for three years. Every meeting, every poster, every initiative had to be perfect. It gave me a sense of purpose—like my anxiety mattered, like I mattered.
Running that club, I became an expert at projecting perfection. “It’s okay not to be okay,” I would tell others, “Reach out if you need support.” But in private, I was struggling with my own mental health. Sweeping feelings under the rug only made them grow. By summer before grade 11, I had run out of options. Everyone around me kept insisting I go to therapy—a concept I had long rejected, even as I dreamed of becoming a psychologist. Irony, right?
Reluctantly, I went. That first session changed everything. I realized that the emotions I had been suppressing actually made sense. Anxiety triggered by religion, fear of making mistakes, feeling like a “bad” person—it all had a reason rooted in my past experiences. And my therapist? The coolest, most understanding person I’d ever met, which didn’t hurt.
One of the first things she said has stuck with me: anxiety and many mental illnesses are hereditary. Studies show that brains of people with anxiety or OCD show higher levels of activity than those without, which means our mental illness isn’t a choice—just like the color of your hair isn’t a choice. But what we do have control over is how we respond. We can let it consume us—or we can use it to grow, to educate, and to help others. I chose the latter.
So here I am today. I still deal with mental health daily, and some days are incredibly hard. But I no longer wake up believing I am a terrible person. Instead, I wake up grateful for another day—cheesy, yes, but true. Life still throws challenges my way, but I keep going because I’ve known the other option, and it wasn’t living. Weighted blankets and hours of Netflix were not solutions; getting up, facing the day, and helping others has been.
Mental Health with Maddy isn’t perfect. I make mistakes. I don’t always live up to the positivity and kindness I preach. But I continuously work on myself and surround myself with people who reflect who I want to be. My circle is small but powerful. My best friend, who I met just seven months ago, is one of the most important people in my life, supporting me and my wild ideas every step of the way.
We all need people—those who love us at our worst, celebrate with us at our best, and offer tough love when needed. If you feel like you don’t have anyone, I’ve been there. It’s awful, I know. But feelings aren’t facts. I promise, if you are a good person, your people will find you. They may take time, and you’ll have to sift through negativity, but they are out there.
If you take anything from my story, remember this:
A. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this. I hope it made you smile—or even laugh a little (I try to be funny sometimes).
B. Follow me on Insta! #shamelesspromo
C. Be kind. Be a light. Love the people around you. Love yourself. Just love.
