By Mason Edwards, Editor-in-Chief
Content Warning: Descriptions of mental health challenges, including anxiety, depression and suicidal thoughts
I’ve lived with severe anxiety my entire life, as far back as making macaroni art as a kindergartener. I have faint memories of the 2008 election, shared bathrooms and waiting for the water fountain, but I will never forget when I accidentally spilled a glue bottle on my plate.
I felt overwhelmed with shame, guilt and anxiety. I remember my skin burned like the inside of an oven, my hands sweated uncontrollably, and my stomach contorted until I was sick. Those emotions, embedded into too many memories, weighed me down, quietly pulling me toward a cliff’s edge I couldn’t yet see—and a confrontation I never expected to face.
As a senior at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, I’ve reflected on my personal growth in college. I’m a first-generation college student who knew little about the academic world—and even less about how college could help me grow in other ways.
As a First Generation Moc, I found help, and because of those programs, I’m not only alive to share my story, but I’m living my best life as a student journalist. Through writing articles, I’ve asked countless people to be vulnerable, but I rarely write about myself. So, in honor of National First-Generation Day today, I’m sharing my story. Students who feel as I did—confused, uncertain, lonely, anxious and depressed—should feel empowered to ask for help, like I learned from my mentor, Assistant Director of Residence Education and Academic Initiatives Jason Harville.
“I think society says having poor mental health makes you weak, but I don't believe that,” Harville said. “I think when you recognize you need assistance, guidance, help, it's the bravest thing you can do.”
Growing up in a quiet suburb in Dayton, Tennessee, surrounded by mountains that change colors each fall, I had a stable life: food, shelter and family support. Yet at school, the pressure cooked me from the inside out, which spilled over into daily life. Suddenly, picking a Lego set felt like a life-altering decision.
“I remember you being this fun, carefree, happy little kid, and then all of sudden, it was like you went to school and it all went away,” my mom said. “My happy little kid wasn’t there anymore. I kept telling you, over and over again, you’d eventually find your people, your place.”
I’m grateful for my mom and dad, who encouraged a love for learning that I always relied on. I didn’t struggle with grades, but even when I was rewarded for success, the fear of failure pushed me to higher levels of perfection. In middle school, I was the kid who cried when they got an 86 on a test.
Teachers thought I was 'sensitive,' a euphemism for 'easily hurt.' My dad wanted to toughen me up, wanting to spare me from being bullied like he was. He kept himself up at night, thinking about how he could protect me from the same fate.
“I didn’t realize I was hurting you when I yelled,” he later told me. “I thought I was being a good dad, motivating you to grow stronger.”
As I got older, and the stressors became much more potent, I fixated hiding my tears, shame, guilt and worry, and when I wasn’t successful, the built-up emotions tormented me. The thought of letting anyone down—even myself—felt unbearable, and I’d lie awake at night, heart racing, as I replayed and evaluated every mistake I made.
As a teenager, at any given time, I was always a few erratic thoughts away from thinking my life was over, and my failure to keep that under control strained the friendships and relationships I formed, which is when I first saw the cliff’s edge: suicidal ideation.
At 15, I started my first, serious relationship with another person, and suddenly the loneliness I felt was lifted away. Her mother didn’t approve of me, and while I never asked the reason myself, I found out it was likely because as I didn’t align with the traditional, men-don’t-cry ideals of masculinity. So, we kept our relationship a secret. The secrecy held me down, amplifying my anxiety, as the connection we shared could be severed at any moment, for any small reason.
I endured it, because I thought I had a chance to be successful, to fit in with regular people. In the moment though, the excitement of a happy future clouded my judgment. My counselors, mentors and trusted adults helped me understand that I looked for my self-worth in other people’s approval—even as my family and friends explicitly warned me not to.
In the fall of 2019, I drove to Rhea County High School’s homecoming game to spend time with people during the third quarter, when the band took their break. When the band dismissed and crowded around the concession stand, I went looking for my friends. Each one had a girlfriend, and when my girlfriend started walking over, I finally felt like I belonged—until her mother showed up, and she pretended not to know me.
The pain from my anxiety during the drive home was overwhelming. I screamed, leaning over the steering wheel as I drove, about my life, my fears and how hopeless everything felt. I never acted it out, but I started thinking about pressing my foot into the accelerator, reaching 100, 110, 120 and then finding a solid tree near the road to crash into. I wanted my death to look like an accident. The thoughts made me happy, the pedal giving into the weight of my foot, pushing into the gas until all I had to do was let go.
The closer I got home, the more I thought about my family, and I realized I couldn’t go away without saying goodbye. I slowed down, wiped my tears and kept thinking about home. My car radio soon clicked into a new track around that time, “September,” by Earth, Wind and Fire, and I started thinking about everything I appreciated in my life. I’m not sure any other song could have pulled me from the cliff. It felt like a betrayal to tell my parents I wanted to end my life, so I buried it within myself.
My secret relationship ended, and while some of my anxiety disappeared, fear continued to drive me, particularly through the pandemic, which exacerbated feelings of isolation and worry. Society minimized contact, kept socially distant, watched the news constantly and cringed whenever we heard friends, families or neighbors had fallen ill. Despite the panic around the virus, it was one of the first fears I learned to let go of—past reasonable safety measures, I couldn’t control whether I got sick or not, so it wasn’t worth me losing my peace.
After I graduated in 2021, I pinned my hope on college as a fresh start, a place to escape my hometown anxieties. Over the summer, I attended one of the 2021 Moc-Up sessions, hosted by Student Success Programs (SSP). As a commuter student who hadn’t toured campus yet, I was anxious about making new friends and not getting lost. Without cost to me, the program let me stay on campus for three days, meet lifelong friends, learn about college success and activities that could help connect me to campus organizations, like the Office of Student and Family Engagement, which later introduced me to the student newspaper.
In the first week of classes, I found myself face-to-face with every fear from my past, plus a dozen new concerns about college, ranging from how to register for classes, what professors to take and how to find parking. Between my classes, commute, the student newspaper, Freshman Senate and my part-time job, I started falling asleep at the wheel late at night. I thanked God for the rumble strips lining the road, but I wondered where I was going wrong. As the weeks passed, my suicidal thoughts returned, but this time, they terrified me. I wanted to stay alive, if not for myself, then at least for my family.
During Moc-Up, I joined the student GroupMe, where students gave each other tips and asked SSP staff questions. In late September, one post titled “Tuesdays with Jason,” offered time for “casual conversation” during lunch. At that point, I knew I needed academic help, so I met then Assistant Director of SSP, Jason Harville, in a corner of the University Center.
“When we are a version of ourselves that we don't want to be and we know we shouldn't be, we are in this constant, frantic state of being nervous,” Harville said. “When you accepted the fact that ‘I don't have to do that’, and I can work on myself first and then those other things are going to fall in place, that's when the change happened.”
Harville connected me directly with the student support team, including Director of Student Support Services Melissa Laseter, who empowered me to pursue a major that truly interested me. Juan Carlos Ortiz Aponte, my peer advisor, continues to look out for me like an older brother.
The meaningful, personalized support helped me admit I needed mental health support too. I wanted to understand why I felt fear with everyday tasks, like driving or speaking. Harville offered to walk me to the counseling center, a gesture that changed my life.
I had over a dozen sessions that year. Counseling helped me understand my thoughts, emotions and behaviors as interlinked parts of myself that I could manage. I learned to accept less-than-perfection, and by extension, myself. Counseling helped me see how my family’s love had kept me from the cliff, and how my anxiety, while agonizing, didn’t define me. Once I could name what afflicted me, I realized I had power over it.
“You did the work,” Harville said. “You ripped the Band-Aid off, and it was a very clear difference once you worked on yourself.”
I was hesitant to consider medication, but the counseling center gave me the tools to understand and accept myself. Once I did, I realized I needed additional support to manage my emotions. Later, I learned that severe anxiety often stems from a chemical imbalance in the brain—a discovery that helped me see my struggles not as personal failings, but as something likely inherited. I finally opened up about my mental health with my doctor, who prescribed medication to bring balance to my emotions.
A week into medication, it was as if I was seeing a sky full of stars for the first time. The ever-present background fear and relentless baseline anxiety faded. It felt like watching a black-and-white film turn into color, leaving me with an appropriate fear response, rather than a constant one.
Once I realized open discussion of mental health could change lives, I started sharing my story with others who might need it. In time, my dad, too, started addressing his mental health and managing his chronic anxiety with newfound hope.
“I tell as many people as I can, that knew me before and can see a difference now,” my dad said. “I wasn’t depressed, but the anxiety was overwhelming sometimes.”
Mental health still challenges me, but as a first-generation college student, I understand that breaking the silence surrounding mental health is as much a part of my journey as any academic achievement. Embracing vulnerability isn’t just about survival; it’s about thriving. I hope that the details of my journey help other first-gen students feel empowered to prioritize their mental health, to reach out when they need support, and to recognize that their story, too, is one of strength. When we open up, we inspire others to do the same, making room for compassion, growth and healing in our lives.
If you’re a student at UTC with a story like mine, I highly recommend resources like Student Success Programs (SSP), Student Support Services (SSS), the Counseling Center, and the Center for Wellbeing, all of which helped me choose life. Mental health crises are rarely expected, so take the time to add the UTC CARE line phone number (423-425-2273) or another similar hotline number to your phone as a contact.
Remember, one of the bravest things you can do is ask for help. Give yourself grace, but don't wait any longer: choose vulnerability over fear.
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