That was the line that started writing itself in my head this week. And like so many of the lines that come to me, it didn’t arrive with logic, it arrived with memory. With reflection. With something unresolved.

When I was a kid growing up in the 70s and 80s (and 90s), no one talked about mental health. Not in any real way. You were either “fine,” or you were the weird kid. The problem. The one who made people uncomfortable.

There was a boy in my class. His name was Ernie.
He sat at the back. Rarely spoke. He didn’t really interact with anyone. But I remember something about him, his laugh. I can still hear it. It was the kind of laugh that made you want to hear it again. So I tried. I used my go-to move: humour. I made him laugh until he nearly peed himself, in fact, he did, several time and I’m kinda proud of that. He kept showing up at my house just to hang out and laugh. And then… he vanished. Just gone. No warning. No explanation. And I still think about him.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I know, I was drawn to him because I saw something familiar. Something that looked a lot like me.

Because even if I wasn’t labelled, I wasn’t fine or normal either.
School was brutal. I worked three times harder for half the results. I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t dumb. I was undiagnosed and misunderstood. It turns out both my sons were diagnosed with the same learning disability and a lesser-known form of depression called dysthymia (persistent depressive disorder). So I guess that apple didn’t fall far. I didn’t know then, but it sure makes sense now.

Looking back now, I see the signs.
But back then? You were just told to try harder. Pay attention. Be more organized. Smile more. Act normal. Whatever that meant.

The truth is, I never really felt normal. And I got good at pretending I was.

Fast-forward 40 years and I’m 53 now.
Still pretending some days. Still struggling on others. Still unlearning old habits of silence. And still dealing with a healthcare system that hasn’t caught up.
Want to see a psychiatrist in my town?
Good fucking luck unless you’re actively harming yourself. It’s like showing up with a broken arm and being told you’re “not broken enough.”

Yes, awareness has grown. We’ve got Bell Let’s Talk Day. We’ve got podcasts. We’ve got social media campaigns. But awareness without access is like giving someone a map with no roads. It’s performative empathy. And it doesn’t help the people who need it most.

When I finally started seeing some of these patterns in my kids, my beautiful, brilliant, neurodivergent kids, it started cracking open something in me. I saw my own younger self. And I realized how much I had been carrying. Quietly. Internally. Invisibly.

Anxiety didn’t arrive with Gen Z.
It’s been here the whole time. We just called it something else. We ignored it. Shamed it. Buried it. Laughed it off. Masked it with productivity or alcohol or anger. Or all three.

And here’s the worst part:
I’ve always been the guy who will do anything to help someone in pain or struggling. But when it comes to helping myself? I suck at it. Full stop.

That’s the thing with high-functioning depression. You don’t see it until it leaks out in your relationships or your health, your work or your inability to feel proud of anything you’ve done. And by the time you notice, it’s already built a second home inside your chest. You don’t want to live there but you just don’t have the energy or tools to break the door down.

Some days I feel grounded. Wise, even.
Other days I feel like a stranger inside my own life.
Cool dad? Nah. I’m the old dad now. The guy whose joints crack louder than his Spotify playlist.

But still, I’ve learned a hell of a lot.
I’ve learned that empathy is everything. That people are all carrying shit they can’t explain. That the quietest people often have the loudest thoughts. That normal is a fucking myth.

So what am I trying to say with all of this?

I guess… if you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like you weren’t “normal”
If you’ve ever felt like everyone else got a manual and you didn’t
If you’ve spent years feeling broken in private but performing in public

You’re not alone.

We all carry invisible things.
Some carry them better than others.
Some never make it.
But maybe if we keep talking like this, raw, unscripted, relentless…
Most of us will make it. Together.


Resources vary from province to province (country to country), but this link to the federal government website contains many helpful links.

https://www.canada.ca/en/public-health/services/mental-health-services/mental-health-get-help.html