Contributing Writer – Vanessa Vestergaard
If someone asks you a question and the answer is complicated—even when answered with direct honesty—how do you share something as personal as a mental health condition, especially when it holds so many parts? I’ve lived with my mental health condition for over thirty years, and still, talking about it isn’t easy. How can anyone truly know when and with whom to share this part of their life?
I realize I’m not alone in this question. Others who have been recently diagnosed often welcome a perspective on this very topic.
We live in an age where people’s lives are openly shared and followed online, but I was born into Generation X—a generation that grew up without the internet, Facebook, or Instagram. My age might influence how I view disclosing a diagnosis differently than a Millennial would, but the courage required is the same. No one tells me I have to share. There’s no pressure to reveal this to someone I’ve just met. I’m also not on social media, where my story might get lost or shared without the intimacy of a true friendship.
I value privacy. And yet, I don’t want this part of me to remain known only to myself. Sometimes, I long to connect with others who have lived experience with a mental health condition—or with someone whose loved one is just beginning their journey toward recovery. To do so requires intuition: a sense of the relationship and a level of comfort in sharing.
There is still fear. There is still hypocrisy on my part, because sometimes I don’t practice what I preach about being open. After all, my job is to help eliminate stigma. I want people to understand that mental health conditions lead to a wide range of experiences and outcomes—each as individual as the person diagnosed. And yet, when it comes to disclosure, I often feel society still favors some diagnoses over others.
Anxiety, for example, is easier for people to hear than schizophrenia—because schizophrenia is not as well known or understood. Perhaps it’s like trying to explain Mars: a place that’s vastly different, where others may only know what they’ve seen on TV or in movies. Sometimes, the stereotype of an illness is challenged when it’s met with a face that says, “I’m here, and I’m okay—with much support and hard work.” Still, there’s risk. Disclosure always carries the question: is it worth showing this most vulnerable side of me?
I choose to share when there is a purpose, and with someone I believe will respect this part of me—someone who won’t dismiss or judge me. That may sound cautious, and yes, I am. I see my mental health condition as something that profoundly shaped my early life. It is special and unique to me.
Still, if I can find people who allow my experience to shine through, then disclosure becomes my decision. It becomes something I control—what I say, how much I share, and whether I speak at all. I understand that I have no obligation to tell my story, and that understanding gives me the freedom to speak when I feel ready, and not simply because I feel I should.
The point of sharing, at least in part, is to build stronger bonds and to remove some of the mystery around diagnoses—diagnoses that one in four people will experience. For me, disclosure must come from a place of strength and readiness.
Always, I feel a deep sense of optimistic joy in learning from others. And sometimes, I realize that sharing my own story lightens my load—and may even lift someone else’s burden.
Take disclosure seriously. We are here for a purpose. And sometimes, the story of our lives is what matters most. Will anyone listen to mine? Will I hear theirs? These are my hopes.
In the end, to help and guide another through lived experience—this, truly, is my best reason for sharing.
