The Invisible RucksackFor nearly twenty years, I deferred myself. I belittled therapy, believing the old stigma that only “the mad” went to a psychologist—a taboo in Paraguayan society, and in my circle. In my time, speaking of mental health was a jest, a source of shame. I consoled myself with “this will pass” or “these matters are not spoken of.” But they did not pass. They crystallised into a diagnosis in my forties, a condition rather than a passing storm. And that, though it seemed my private matter, touched every soul around me.Today, I speak with utter honesty. I do so because I miss my mother, gone these ten months. And I see my father, bowed beneath grief and depression, still reluctant to tend to himself. And I understand them—truly, I do. They did what they could with the tools they had. They, too, suffered. They, too, bore childhoods that weighed upon them. They shouldered rucksacks they never learned to lighten. My psychiatrist tells me they were likely never happy, and that thought fills me with profound sadness.An Apology Born of LoveHere lies the hardest truth: I too did what I could with the tools at my disposal, with my inner and outer judges. But sadness, depression, anxiety—any illness of the mind—does not belong to one alone. It spills over. It affects those we love. I know this in my very flesh. They, too, did not know how to cope with it all.So today, I wish to apologise. Not an apology born of guilt, but of love. I am sorry if my pain, my process, my choices—at times wise, at times not—have wounded. I am sorry if I was misunderstood. For when one is broken without knowing why, one makes decisions that, without intending harm, can leave scars. It is a heavy chain passed from generation to generation—unless one dares to break it.On Prevention and EmpathyThis is why it matters to speak, to seek help, to consult a professional—and not to postpone it. For mental health is no longer a private affair; it is a matter of public health, in Paraguay and across the world. There is more knowledge now than ever before. In England, there is even a Ministry of Loneliness. Social media has opened the floodgates of information, making a therapist’s appointment as ordinary as one with the dentist. There is no shame in it.So let us speak of prevention. Around the family table, in schools, in every corner. Let us grow in empathy. For we never truly know what rucksack another is carrying. I do not excuse cruelty or mistreatment, but I do believe we must learn to see that behind many harsh acts stands a soul that does not know what to do with its own weight.And so I give thanks—to the universe, to my God, however one names it—that it is possible. That though there are lows, one may rise again. Something, deep within, has kept me standing to this day. May no one ever have to reach the brink for want of a voice, a hand, a simple “you can” or “I will help you.”I read letters sent to mailto:[email protected]