My cohort has grown up in an era of unprecedented academic pressures, endured the toxic fallout of social media, and lost formative years to a pandemic. Here is one Newton high school student’s true story:

In her sophomore year French class, the final project was to write a poem about a feeling, idea or concept. 

While many of her classmates crafted flowery metaphors for hope, love, peace or beauty, she decided to write about the only emotion she felt capable of holding at the time: “Le désespoir.” Despair.

She submitted the assignment. Little did she realize, what happened next would change the trajectory of her high school years—perhaps even her life.

In her poem, a once happy astronaut becomes untethered from his shuttle during a spacewalk, drifts into the abyss of space, and realizes that there is nothing more in the universe worth clinging to. His oxygen supply is running low, but he doesn’t care anymore.

Unsurprisingly, the poem raised some concerns. While her teacher complimented its composition, its subject matter worried her, and she promptly reached out to the student’s guidance counselor to make sure she was all right. She hadn’t seen the intervention coming, largely because she had normalized her feelings to herself; thoughts about the futility of life had been consuming her around the clock.

Sitting in her counselor’s office that day, her reaction was a mix of reluctance and relief. For months, she’d tried so hard to maintain a facade, showing up to school day after day as if everything were fine. Now, she couldn’t hide the cracks anymore, and she hated herself for that. Yet, knowing someone had noticed and cared enough to reach out was strangely comforting.

Squirming in her chair, she let it slip that she was in the throes of an existential crisis—but assured her counselor that she was fine. He reminded her that support was available if those thoughts returned. She felt a slight twinge of reassurance and nodded, debating whether to reveal the full truth: the spiraling, the daily crying sessions, and the feeling that joy was a distant memory.

Instead, she pushed it aside; the feelings were too raw. All through that summer and into junior year, she buried the emotions deep down and kept asking: why, why, why?

In December, her junior class participated in the Signs of Suicide (SOS) program, an initiative designed to educate students on depression and empower them to seek support for themselves or their peers. At the prospect of yet another assembly, many students groaned, herself included. They’d sat through similar presentations in freshman year and middle school. Why sit through another when they could use the block to study?

They gathered in the lecture hall. As the lights dimmed, they watched testimonials from students explaining how opening up about their mental health saved their lives. 

While some students may have used the time for a quick nap, the rest were forced to come face-to-face with one of the most consequential issues of their generation—one so often met with silence in their classrooms.

For her, the presentation prompted the step she’d been terrified to take: scheduling a meeting with her new counselor (the previous one had just retired) to say that she didn’t think she would be able to hold up for much longer.

That was the tiny first step in what would be a long process, but it was the most vital. For the first time, she had a safe space to unload the pressure. In her new counselor, she found an unwavering, patient listening ear, someone whose office was always open with a box of tissues and a quiet place to sit.

Navigating the debilitating existential dread took months of patience, open conversations, and relearning how to find satisfaction in daily life. It required unlearning the silence around mental health and accepting help from the people around her. 

Without her French teacher’s concern, her counselor’s support, or the spark from the SOS assembly, she doesn’t know how she would have made it through the beast of junior year. Where she had once felt like an untethered astronaut drifting alone into the abyss, these support systems became a lifeline; they bound her to something beautiful, meaningful and worth holding onto.

Her story isn’t unique at all. Nationwide, 33 percent of high school students experienced persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness in 2025, according to the Centers on Disease Control and Prevention. Mental health is one of the most urgent and defining issues of our generation. 

This is why systemic support in our schools matters. This past June, Newton Public Schools hired its first director of mental health, a crucial move that signals mental health is taking a front seat in the district’s priorities. So many of us know first-hand how urgently students need an understanding ear in their corner.

This student’s story is a testament to why accessible mental health resources matter. I applaud Newton Public Schools for cementing its commitment to student well-being through hiring its first director of mental health, and I implore the district to continue prioritizing ongoing mental health support systems for both staff and students.

[If you or someone you know needs support, help is available 24/7. Visit 988lifeline.org or call/text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.]

Bethesda Yeh is a senior at Newton South High School and an editor-in-chief for South’s student newspaper, The Lion’s Roar. She can be reached at beth.lionsroar@gmail.com.