The Girl Who Couldn’t Fail
People used to call me Strong Ada.
Not just because I could balance academics, social life, and volunteering, but because I seemed… untouchable. Always smiling. Always excelling. Always there for everyone.

In my third year at the University of Lagos, I had what most people would call the dream student life:

A GPA above 4.7.

Class representative for my department.

Member of the student debate team.

Volunteer tutor for secondary school kids in Yaba.

On the outside, I was thriving.
On the inside, I was drowning.

The truth was, every day felt like a performance. I woke up, put on the mask, and played the role of the girl who had everything together. No one saw the cracks forming beneath.

The First Signs
The first time I noticed something was wrong, it was a Wednesday morning in my second semester. My alarm went off at 6:00 a.m., and I couldn’t move. My body wasn’t sore. I wasn’t ill. I just… couldn’t will myself to get out of bed.

I skipped my 8:00 a.m. lecture, telling myself it was just one day. But then it happened again the next week. And again.

My friends started to notice I wasn’t hanging out as much.
"Ada, you’re always busy."
"We miss you at movie night."
I’d smile and say, “Next time, I promise.” But the truth was, I didn’t have the energy to be around people anymore.

Nights were the worst. I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, my chest heavy with thoughts I couldn’t name. Sometimes I’d cry without knowing why. I buried my face in my pillow so my roommate wouldn’t hear.

The Family Filter
In my family, mental health wasn’t a conversation—it was a weakness.

I grew up in an Igbo household where resilience was worn like armor. My parents worked hard to give us a good life, so when I hinted at being overwhelmed, I was met with phrases like:

Mum: “My dear, you’re in school. Do you know how many people wish they had your opportunity? Thank God and focus.”

Dad: “In our time, we didn’t have time to be tired. We worked harder.”

They didn’t mean to hurt me. They just didn’t understand that I wasn’t being lazy—I was losing myself.

So I learned to keep it inside. If something was bothering me, I swallowed it down. My role was to succeed, to make them proud, not to burden them with feelings they didn’t know how to handle.

The Pressure Cooker
Mid-semester exams arrived like a storm. Three tests in five days, plus a group presentation for my marketing course. I lived in the library, surviving on instant noodles and coffee.

I pushed through, pretending everything was fine. I wore bright lipstick to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I laughed at jokes in the hallway, then locked myself in the restroom and cried.

One afternoon, a classmate stopped me on my way out of the library.
"Ada, you’re so lucky. You’re smart, pretty, and destined for success."

I smiled and thanked her, but as soon as she walked away, my vision blurred. I ran to the bathroom and wept into my hands for 45 minutes. I wasn’t crying because I was sad—I was crying because I didn’t feel anything anymore.

The Breaking Point
The day everything collapsed was a Tuesday morning in April.

I woke up for my 9:00 a.m. lecture, but my body felt like it was pinned to the bed. My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t breathe properly.

At first, I thought I was dying.

My roommate noticed I was pale and asked if I was okay. I lied: “I’m fine. Just tired.” She left for class.

The moment the door closed, I curled into a ball and began to sob uncontrollably. My breathing got worse. My chest tightened. I was gasping for air. Panic surged through me.

I grabbed my phone and called my best friend, Sade. My voice was shaking.
"Please… come."

She was at my door in less than 10 minutes. When she saw me, she didn’t ask questions—she just said, “We’re going to the health centre. Now.”

Naming the Monster
At the university health centre, the nurse checked my vitals. Physically, I was fine. But when she asked how I felt, I started crying again. She called the campus counselor.

The counselor was a calm, middle-aged woman with warm eyes. She listened as I explained: the exhaustion, the emptiness, the fake smiles, the guilt. I told her I felt like I was failing at life, even though everyone thought I was winning.

When I finished, she said softly:

“Ada, you’re not weak. You’re not lazy. What you’re describing is depression, and that panic earlier was an anxiety attack. You’ve been holding too much inside for too long.”

For the first time in years, I felt seen.

We made a plan—regular counseling sessions, a lighter workload where possible, and joining a peer support group on campus. She also insisted I take a week off classes to rest.

The Climb Back
Recovery wasn’t instant.

Some days, I woke up feeling hopeful. Other days, I couldn’t get out of bed. I learned that healing is not a straight line—it’s a slow climb with slips along the way.

I started journaling my thoughts. I began taking short walks at sunset. I cut down on commitments and allowed myself to say “no” without guilt.

And I started opening up—first to Sade, then to a few other friends I trusted. To my surprise, some admitted they’d been feeling the same way.

I realized I wasn’t alone. I never had been.

Speaking My Truth
A year later, I was invited to speak at a mental health awareness event on campus. I told my story—every detail.

I expected judgment. Instead, there was silence. A good kind of silence. The kind where people are listening with their whole hearts.

Afterwards, three students came up to me and whispered the same words:

“That’s me. I’m going through that right now.”

It broke my heart—and healed it at the same time.

Epilogue: Check on the Strong Ones
If you take anything from my story, take this:
The friend who seems the happiest, the classmate who always helps everyone else, the colleague who never complains—check on them.

Strength isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a quiet battle you fight inside every single day.

I’m still healing. I still have bad days. But now, I know I don’t have to fight in silence anymore. And neither should you.

If you’re struggling:
📞 Call a mental health helpline in your country(https://speakox.com/story/28/preview).
💬 Talk to a friend, counselor, or mentor.
🧡 You are not alone.