The People Who Are Struggling Are Already in the Room

If you looked at a picture of me today without knowing me, you could probably make some assumptions. Happy. Confident. Successful, maybe. You might notice the PhD after my name. You might see the business I've built or the work I get to do with leaders and teams. If you follow me online, you'd see pictures of my husband and kids, trips we've taken, work I love, and a life that I am incredibly grateful for.

You wouldn't know that 20 years ago, I didn't think I would live long enough to have any of it. But here's the other thing you wouldn't know just by looking at me: I still go to therapy every week.

I still pay attention to my triggers. I still notice when the darkness starts creeping in around the edges. I still intentionally take care of my mental health because I know myself well enough to know that depression isn't something I can simply declare myself finished with.

There are still days when it rears its head. Because I'm human.

And I think that's important to say.

I don't want to tell this story as though there was a broken version of me twenty years ago and a happy, healed version standing here today.

My life is extraordinarily different. I am extraordinarily different. But taking care of my mental health isn't evidence that I haven't healed. It's part of how I continue to live the life I fought so hard to stay for.

20 years ago

20 years ago, I tried to end my life. I've shared pieces of that story before. But lately, I've been thinking less about the attempt itself and more about everything happening around it.

Because while I was suicidal, I was also living a life. I went to work. I talked to people. I laughed sometimes. I answered questions. I showed up in places I was supposed to be. I was someone's coworker. Someone's friend. Someone's daughter. And most of the people I encountered had absolutely no idea how much pain I was in.

I don't say that because I think they should have known. That's actually the point. Sometimes we simply cannot see what another person is carrying.

The people who are struggling aren't somewhere else

I think we sometimes imagine struggle as something we'll recognize. That we'll be able to tell. That someone who is deeply depressed will look deeply depressed. That someone who is overwhelmed will stop functioning. That someone who desperately needs help will ask for it.

Sometimes that's true. And sometimes the person who is struggling is still answering emails. She's leading the meeting. He's making everyone laugh. She's hitting her goals. He's picking his kids up from school. She's asking you how you're doing. They're doing all the things we've learned to associate with being okay.

I know because I was.

And even now, 20 years later, there are things you wouldn't know about me by looking at a photograph, sitting across from me in a meeting, or watching me facilitate a room.

That's something I carry with me now when I walk into spaces with other people:

The people who are struggling are already in the room. They're in our workplaces and classrooms. They're on our teams. They're sitting next to us at dinner. They're in our group texts and Zoom squares and school pickup lines.

Sometimes we'll know what they're carrying. Sometimes we won't.

We don't have to know someone's story to treat them like they have one

I think this may be one of the biggest things my own experience has changed about the way I see people.

Because if we accept that we can never fully know what's happening inside another person, maybe we become a little slower to decide what their behavior means.

Someone who is usually engaged has gotten quiet. Someone misses something they normally wouldn't. A colleague seems distracted. An employee's performance changes. Someone responds differently than we expected.

It's easy to fill in the blanks. They don't care. They're disengaged. They're unreliable. They're being difficult.

Maybe. Or maybe there's something happening that we can't see.

That doesn't mean we ignore performance problems. It doesn't mean leaders stop holding people accountable or avoid difficult conversations.

Compassion and accountability aren't opposites.

It simply means we leave room for the possibility that there is more to the person in front of us than the behavior we're seeing from them today. We get curious before we get judgmental. We ask another question. We listen to the answer. We notice a change without immediately deciding what it means.

And sometimes? We're simply kinder. Not because we know someone is struggling. Because we know they could be.

Paying attention doesn't mean we'll always know

I want to be especially careful here. Because I don't want someone reading this who has lost someone they love to think: I should have noticed.

And I don't want a leader reading this to believe that if they're attentive enough, they'll always recognize when someone on their team is struggling. That's not how this works.

There were people who loved me twenty years ago who didn't know. There were people around me who didn't see it. There were things I didn't say. There were parts of myself I worked very hard to keep hidden.

Caring about people doesn't give us the ability to see inside them. But caring can change the kind of space we create around them.

We can build relationships where the answer to "How are you?" doesn't always have to be "Fine." We can ask the second question. We can respond to vulnerability in ways that make someone more likely—not less likely—to tell us the truth next time.

We can make it a little safer for someone to say:

I'm struggling. Or I need help. Or I don't have my usual capacity right now. Or simply I'm not okay.

And particularly in our workplaces, we can ask ourselves whether people believe they can tell the truth about being human without immediately wondering what that truth will cost them professionally.

That matters to me. Because I know what it's like to be struggling deeply while still functioning. I know what it's like to look okay when you're not.

The life I couldn't see

There's another part of this 20-year anniversary that I can't stop thinking about. It's everything I couldn't see yet.

20 years ago, I couldn't see the woman I would become. I couldn't see my husband. I couldn't see my children. I couldn't see the business I would build. I couldn't see the rooms I would stand in or the people I would have the privilege of coaching. I couldn't see the trips we'd take. The bedtime stories. The ridiculous things my kids would say. The laughter. The celebrations. The ordinary Tuesday nights. The thousands of completely unremarkable moments that would eventually add up to a life I am profoundly grateful to still be living.

I couldn't see any of it.

And I want to be careful with this part, too. Because I don't believe the lesson is: Don't worry. Everything gets better.

Life doesn't work like that. There have been incredibly hard days in the 20 years since that one.

There has been loss. Fear. Disappointment. Pain.

There have been days when depression has reminded me that it still knows where I live.

I still go to therapy every week. I still pay attention to my triggers. I still notice when something in me starts to shift. I still ask for help.

The difference isn't that my life became perfect. The difference is that I stayed long enough to live it. And I am so grateful that I did.

There is so much life you haven't met yet

One of the cruelest things about being in that much pain is that you're being asked to keep living for a future you may be completely incapable of imagining.

I couldn't imagine mine either.

So 20 years later, I don't have a tidy lesson to offer. I have gratitude. I have perspective. And I have a much deeper awareness that every person I encounter has an interior life I cannot fully see.

That changes how I want to lead. It changes how I want to parent. It changes how I want to coach. It changes how I want to be a friend. It changes how I want to move through a meeting, a grocery store, a school pickup line, or a hard conversation.

I want to assume less. I want to ask the second question. I want to listen longer. I want to tell people I'm glad they're here. I want to help create places where being human isn't something we have to hide.

And if you're reading this as the person carrying something impossibly heavy right now, please tell someone.

You don't have to know how everything turns out. You don't have to be able to picture yourself twenty years from now. You don't have to see the whole future today. Sometimes, staying is enough for today.

There is so much life you haven't met yet.

I'm very glad you're here.

In your corner,

Kelly

And if you or someone you know needs support: In the U.S., you can call, text, or chat 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you are in immediate danger, call emergency services.