We live in the age of highlights
Smiles are uploaded , struggles are archived
Strength is filtered , pain is cropped

But mental health does not live in captions
It lives in the quiet spaces , between
Expectations and exhaustion , faith and fear
Success and silence

I learned this the hard way
There was a time I thought strength meant endurance without confession
That resilience meant silence . That being okay was a responsibility not a reality
I could motivate others , show up for people , lead , build , create ,
Yet still go home internally empty . functioning but not fine

Mental health struggles rarely arrive with announcements

They arrive disguised as fatigue , irritability , loss of joy ,
Spiritual dryness , disconnection
A constant mental noise you cannot switch off

In many of our communities we are taught to pray but not always to process ,
To believe but not always to speak
To endure but not always to feel ,

Yet healing begins where honesty enters ,
Let us speak
Let us listen
Let us heal , out loud.

By MAKHOSINI S MPOFU

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Mental health refers to one’s emotional, psychological and social well- being. It affects how one thinks, feels and behaves and it also determines how one can handle stress, relate to others and make decisions and choices. Thus, good mental health enables you to deal with life’s challenges, realise your potential and abilities, learn and work well, contribute to your community as well as form and maintain healthy relationships. Mental health is an important part of one’s well-being, yet it is one of the most misunderstood and stigmatized aspects of health. It is therefore vital to explore what mental health issues are, why they matter and how societies can better address them.

According to WHO more than one billion people globally live with a mental health condition, making it one of the leading causes of disability worldwide. In Zimbabwe it is a common thing to find mentally challenged people roaming the streets. It is worrisome to note that many more people succumb to stress and depression due to social and economic reasons. Experts describe mental health as a public health emergency, with rising rates of depression, anxiety and stress- related disorders found across all age groups.

Common mental health issues comprise depression, that is persistent sadness, loss of interest, fatigue and lack of sleep that affect one’s daily life. Anxiety disorders emanating from excessive worry, panic attacks and other physical symptoms like rapid mood changes and violence depict mental health challenges. Some people struggle with mental health as a result of drug abuse and substance use. I have witnessed disheartening incidences of people struggling with mental health issues. At my workplace some student teachers have to postpone their studies in order to seek medication as a result of substance use. Even when they return to resume their studies, you can still see that they would be vulnerable and struggling. At one point we had a female student who was raped while on work integrated learning. Although the culprit was arrested and the girl received counseling and medical treatment, the traumatizing incident left an undetectable mark on her well-being.

There is also the sad case of a colleague’s son who committed suicide after completing his Advanced Level. Unknown to his parents, he had been struggling with drug and substance abuse. The heart wrecking incident of a fellow congregant who returned home from church to find his son who had been struggling with drug addiction), having set fire to the entire homestead, struck and murdered his pregnant wife with a matchet and then burnt the body. The mother had to flee for dear life together with her three grandchildren (children of the man who had killed his wife). Mental health issues are not merely an individual problem, they also affect families and the society at large.

They say prevention is better than cure. Healthy lifestyle approaches are necessary. It is therefore imperative to exercise self-care strategies such as mindfulness and meditation. This helps to reduce stress and increase self-awareness. Exercising boosts mood and it is essential for one to have adequate sleeping time. One also needs to have healthy eating habits and avoid loneliness by building and maintaining healthy relationships and community ties.

Early intervention is important. There is need to be one’s brother’s keeper. Recognizing symptoms of health challenges and seeking professional help early is important. Expanding affordable therapy, counseling and community-based support is very important. It is also important to reduce stigma through open conversations in order to normalize mental health struggles. I remember one of our students who had just returned from receiving therapy for drug addiction, coming to my office with a notebook saying, “Mam, I want to learn to write books like you do. Here is what I got from the library.” He read to me what appeared to be lacking coherence but I praised him so as to boost his confidence and then gave him the advice he needed. He left a contended young man and I felt that I had assisted him well without showing any stigmatization.

Mental health issues are therefore not just personal struggles, they are societal challenges that require collective action. By providing the awareness, accessibility and compassion, communities can foster resilience and ensure that mental health is treated with the same urgency and respect as physical health. Mental health is a prerequisite for everyone.

By Perpetua Gonese

Social Handles

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Poem By : Nonny Vee

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Mirror, Mirror. Who’s the prettiest of them all?
Not me. Certainly.

Look at all the beauties out there.
Surely, have you seen my crooked smile?
What about my pimples?
And what about my big ears?
Oh, how glad I am that you can only see my face.
For I hear my legs are manly, far from beautiful
Compared to how a woman’s should look.

Mirror, Mirror. Who’s the most creative of them all?
It surely can’t be me.

Do I sing better than those Divas?
I’m not sure I can even tie their shoes.
Could I possibly write better
than the outstanding poets out there?
My pen must not be sharp enough.

Mirror, Mirror. Godly Mirror, tell me:
Who am I? Tell me what You see?

Gladly, Mirror answers:
I am glad you finally asked.
You finally chose the right mirror.
It is not the flaws that I see;
I see beauty in the flaws
because I allowed them,
That I may fill them with my Light.

Poem By: Rasanganea Uwantege

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It hurts to hear, it hurts to know
Women and children all over the world,
Having their lives cut short, don’t you know?
Murdered, abused, their voices silenced each day
A pain that echoes, in every way

Girls, each day, lost to violence and pain
Their futures stolen, their dreams in vain
It hurts, it aches, it cuts deep inside
To hear of sisters, lost, and futures denied

But still we rise, we stand, we speak
For justice, for rights, for a life to seek
So let’s stand together, united as one
On November 21st, let our voices be heard

Every girl, every woman,
every life matters, let’s make it clear
No more violence, no more fear, we stand for change, we stand for peace, we stand for justice,
and we stand for life, equality, and humanity.

Your voice matters, and together we can make a difference.

By: Grace Banda

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The 20 y/o girl I used to be.

If I could find you now, where would you be? In the sterile, chilled air of the oncology ward, listening to the steady drip-drip-drip of the poison that is also your salvation? Or are you in a university library, your head swimming with formulas and theories, a beanie pulled low over the hair that is no longer there, trying to convince the world and yourself that you are just like any other student?

I see you. I see you with a clarity that time has carved into my bones. I am writing to you from a decade in your future. Ten years. You, who was told to get your affairs in order, who was handed a hospice referral like a life sentence. You would not believe that we are still here.

But first, I need to tell you that I miss you. I know how strange that sounds. You are right here, in my memories, in the very blood that still courses through my veins. But I miss your specific kind of fire. I miss the way you set your jaw when the doctor said the word “cancer.” I miss the sheer, terrifying ambition that made you get out of a hospital bed, dizzy from chemo, and walk onto campus. You saw that degree as a golden ticket, the only way out of the poverty that haunted our childhood. It was more than a degree… It was a promise to ourselves, our family, a shield, a future. And when the diagnosis came, it felt like that promise was being ripped from your hands. You couldn’t accept that. So you entered a tug-of-war with death itself, with a blurry, uncertain future as the prize.

You were so beautiful in your defiance. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic beauty. It was a quiet, stubborn one. The beauty of showing up. The beauty of your stubborn faith.

Do you remember the physical cost? The weight loss that made your clothes hang like ghosts on your frame? The neuropathy in your fingers and feet that made typing an essay feel like climbing a mountain? The physical disability that left you mourning for what was once there? The exhaustion that was more than just tiredness… it was a lead blanket on your soul, a gravity seven times stronger than anyone else’s. You didn’t care. Or rather, you cared, but you refused to let it be the boss of you. Day after day, with the veins filled with the red devil’s poison, you hopped to class with your crutches – every step you took screamed I am here for a purpose – and a purpose you fulfilled.

All you wanted was to live your life as if you weren’t dying. As if you weren’t, at nineteen, being handed pamphlets on palliative care. You went to class with a port attached to your body. You studied between bursts of nausea and chest pains. You laughed with friends, your laughter sometimes a thin veil over a bedrock of fear. You were a masterpiece of courage, and you didn’t even know it. You thought you were just surviving – after all, you had no choice (so you thought).

I need you to know something. That fight you were in? You won.

You got your degree. You finished it in record time, a fact that still astounds me to date. You defied every grim statistic, every whispered prognosis. You lived to see the other side of that “blurry future.” The woman I am today is built on the foundation you laid with your pain, your courage, your sheer, bloody-minded will.

We have come so far. We have achieved so much. We have loved, we have traveled, we have built a life. There are so many blessings, moments of joy so sharp and sweet they still make you weep. I list them in my head sometimes, like counting jewels… Waking up without pain. A cup of coffee that tastes good. The sun on my face. The degree, framed on the wall. These are the victories you made possible.

And yet. This is the hard part to write. This is the part where I have to be as honest with you as you were with yourself in that hospital room. I am tired, my love. I am so, so exhausted.

The battle didn’t end when the scans came back clear. It just changed shape and location. Now, it’s a different kind of war. It’s the war of aftermath. The war of “what now?” The war of chronic pain that has overstayed its welcome, of hormones that rage like a storm inside me, medications with side effects that feel like a new disease. It’s the endless parade of hospital visits… not for crisis, but for maintenance. For monitoring. It’s the isolation that comes from living in a body that has been to war while your peers’ bodies have been on vacation.

Some days, the lead blanket of exhaustion you wore temporarily has become my permanent state. I tell myself, “Think positively… You’re alive…” But my body doesn’t listen. The pain doesn’t listen. The negative energy is a bubble I can’t pop, and it’s not easy to escape. Some mornings, the greatest achievement is the Herculean effort it takes to move my limbs from the bed to the floor.

I look for you in these moments. I search for that nineteen-year-old who fought death for a chance to sit in a lecture hall. I long for her strength. I feel like I’ve lost her, that the years have sanded her down into this weary, overwhelmed woman. I never thought, after all this time, that the battle would feel so familiar – like moving in circles.

But here is what I am learning, from my vantage point ten years ahead of you. Your strength didn’t vanish. It transformed. Your fight then was external, against a visible enemy… a malignant tumor, a disease. It was a sprint of sheer will. My fight now is more internal. It’s a marathon against the echoes of that war. It’s the management of the fallout. And my dear, a marathon requires a different kind of endurance. It requires pacing. It requires knowing that it’s okay to walk sometimes. To know that it is okay to take one step at a time. To rest when need be.

You fought to build a life. Now, I am learning how to live in it – as I am now, now as what I thought I would be now.

When you chose education over surrender, you weren’t just being stubborn. You were making a statement: “My life is mine.” You were claiming your identity back from the disease. I need to do that again, now. I need to find small, daily ways to claim my life from the pain, the fatigue, the overwhelm, the treatments, the recurrences… all of it.

Maybe it’s not about finding your old strength, but about recognizing that the strength I have now is just as valid. The strength to rest without guilt. The strength to say, “I am not okay today,” and to mean it. The strength to mourn… for the beautiful, ambitious 19-year-old you were, and for the woman we thought we would become. It’s okay to mourn them. It’s necessary. They are beautiful ghosts, and we must honor them before we can fully embrace the woman we have become.

You were a warrior in the bright light of crisis. I am a gardener in the quiet, slow dawn of survival, tending to the scarred but fertile soil you left me.

So, thank you. Thank you for fighting so hard for this future, even when it felt hopeless. Thank you for every class you attended, every page you turned, every tear you swallowed. You did it. You gave us a life. I won’t promise you that it will all be easy from here. That would be a lie. But I can promise you this… it is definitely worth it. The joy is worth the pain. The peace is worth the struggle. And the love is worth the loss.

You taught me that the will to live is not just about the heart beating in your chest, but about the soul firing in your eyes. You taught me that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass… it’s about learning to dance in the rain, even if the dance is slow and painful.

When I can’t get out of bed, I will try to remember the feel of a textbook in your hands. When the pain is overwhelming, I will remember the fire in your belly that burned hotter than any fever. I will draw a line from your courage then to my perseverance now.

We are the same person, you and I. The same relentless and stubborn spirit in different seasons of the same storm. You are not a stranger I’ve lost. You are the seed from which I grew. I am still here because you refused to give up. And I, in your honor, will refuse to give in.

With all my love, and all the strength you lent me,
Your Older Self

Story written by: Mutshidzi

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I grew up in the Cape Flats, a place where skin was a map of worth, and mine was written in the darkest ink. My hair, thick, untamed, spiraled toward the heavens—was branded as a curse, the emblem of poverty. From the beginning, my parents whispered warnings: “You will not look like the rest in your class.” They tried to prepare me for the jeers, for the loneliness. But nothing could shield me from the sting of small fists and sharp words, the daily crucifixion of a child whose only crime was to carry the color of her ancestors.

In our streets, light skin was worshiped like a fragile god, and straight hair held the throne. The children around me were already disciples of a history that had brainwashed their families into self-denial. Teachers tried to remind us that we were all Africans, yet their words fell into soil already poisoned. Parents hissed back: “Our children are not African—they are coloured.” And the lie continued to blossom, strangling truth like weeds in dry ground.

By the time I entered high school, my body itself had become a shadow that boys recoiled from. None dared to walk beside me, as though my presence would stain them. Some spoke their cruelty aloud, saying they could never bear children with me, for their offspring would look like “Bantus”—their word for black, wielded like a blade. Their rejection, strangely, became my refuge. Where others sought affection, I found sanctuary in silence, pouring my exile into journals. Line by line, I began to stitch my own destiny, my eyes fixed on the faraway gates of the University of Cape Town.

From Grade 1 to Grade 7, my childhood was a battlefield. The blows of classmates carved wounds not only in my skin but in my spirit. There were mornings when I begged the heavens to release me from school, when despair wrapped itself around me like a shroud. Yet my parents armed me differently. My mother, warrior in her own right, would say: “The  weak fight violence with violence. The strong fight with the Word of God, and with words on paper.”

And so I chose the weapon of the unseen. In secrecy, I became a soldier of ink, fighting not with fists but with sentences, waging war in silence. My scars became my scripture, and my journal, the altar where I laid down every pain.

Story by: Lendy

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I became my mother’s caregiver when I was just four years old.

My mother was from Opuwo, in the Kunene region of Namibia. When I was four, she became very ill. In our area, people strongly believed in witchcraft. They thought her sickness was caused by something supernatural, something that hospitals and doctors could not fix. She was stuck in bed for weeks, and she grew weaker every day.

One day, one of my mother’s nephews came to our village for a funeral. He saw how sick she was and knew she needed more than just medicine from a doctor. He suggested to my grandfather that he take my mother to live with him so she could get traditional treatment. My grandfather agreed, and the nephew said he would come back for her later.

Even after starting the traditional treatments, my mother’s health did not get better. On her good days, when she felt a little stronger, she would wash her clothes or give me a bath—things no one else would do for me. But those good days were rare.

The Journey to Find Help

One day, my mother decided we had to leave. She was very weak, but she took me with her to hitchhike to another village. This was where her own mother was from, and it was closer to the main road to Outjo, which made it easier to find a ride. We had no money, so we relied on the kindness of people we did not know.

We stayed in that village for a few days, waiting for a free ride. I remember one very hard day when my mother was so dizzy she could not stand. She asked me to cook porridge, a huge task for a four-year-old. As I struggled with the pot over the fire, an ostrich suddenly appeared and tried to eat our food. I was so scared that I ran into the house. When I looked back, the pot had tipped over, spilling our only meal. I cried from hunger and frustration.

Our luck changed when we were waiting near some stores. A woman who knew my mother came over and gave her N$10, which was a lot of money for us at the time. While they were talking, a car stopped.
The woman knew the driver and asked if he could give us a ride, explaining that we had no money. To
our surprise, he said yes.

Midnight in a Strange Town

The driver took us past Outjo all the way to Okakarara, the town nearest to where my mother’s nephew lived. We arrived at one in the morning with no place to sleep. The kind driver let us sleep in an old canopy outside his house. It was not much, but it kept us safe.

Early the next morning, we waited for the man to wake up. When he did, he asked my mother what we planned to do. She told him she was looking for her nephew who worked in the town. The man helped us find him, and soon my mother’s nephew came to take us to his home. At his house, we met another woman from my mother’s village. She was also there for traditional treatment for an illness. When she saw that my mother was much sicker than she was, this kind woman

washed our clothes and blankets and gave me a bath. I had not had one in days. She also cooked food for us. Our last meal had been breakfast the day before. Hunger was a constant part of our lives. Whenever I told my mother I was hungry, she would tell me, “Drink water” We accepted this without complaining.

The price of help

After three days, my mother’s nephew called the relative we were supposed to stay with, and that man came to get us. That was when our real struggle began. I now see it as a kind of modern slavery.

Even though my mother was sick, she was expected to do all the housework: laundry, cleaning, and cooking for her nephew and his family. The nephew did take her to a doctor and paid for her treatment, but in return, my mother had to work for him for free, with no end in sight.

The doctor found that my mother could not eat maize meal, the main food in our region. She could only have pasta, rice, meat, or milk. But the nephew said he would not regularly buy these more expensive foods. If there was no milk, she just did not eat. When there was milk, she would pour all of it into my porridge, leaving nothing for herself.

As my mother grew sicker from the hard work and lack of good food, I had to do even more. By the time I was six, I was washing her clothes and cooking for both of us.

School and Separation

When I turned seven, it was time for me to start school. My mother and I were sent to Okakarara to stay with her nephew’s son, who was the principal of the primary school I would attend.

Because my mother could not read or write, the only work she could find was as a domestic worker. She needed money for my school fees, so she took a job cleaning houses and looking after the children for one of my teachers. Her first full paycheck all went toward my education.

To earn more money and pay for the small outside room we lived in – which had only a toilet and no bathroom – my mother took on extra jobs. I helped by raking yards, and she washed clothes on weekends while working her main job during the week. We did all this just to have one meal a day and a roof over our heads. I slept on the floor of our little room and often got sick with the flu during the cold winters.

A Friend’s Kindness

I had a friend whose mother was also a teacher at my school. One day after school, she came home with me. When she saw how we lived, she told her mother. Her mother came to talk to me and asked if I would like to stay with their family on school days and come back to my mother on weekends. My mother agreed, hoping I would have a proper bed and regular meals. This only lasted for a month before the owner of our room became unhappy with the arrangement, and I had to go back to sleeping on the floor.

There were other small hurts, too. The principal, my mother’s nephew’s son, drove to school every morning with his wife and their two children. But he always left me behind. I had to take the bus to the very school where he was in charge. Even as a child, I wondered why he would not give me a ride, but I knew not to ask an adult such a question. This was our routine until the school year ended.

The Final Separation

During the December holidays, my mother’s nephew bought a farm and planned to move there in January. When the time came, they moved to the farm, and my mother went with them to continue her unpaid work. But there was no place for me there.

That is how I ended up being sent to boarding school, separated from the mother I had cared for since I was four years old.

To read Jasana’s emotional and inspiring story about her experiences at boarding school, click on the following link:

Growing Up In A Boarding School By Jasana Uandia

By: Jasana

Instagram: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

Facebook: Jasana Ijemue Uandia

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A soul so bright,
Torn apart by darkness and endless fight.
Bipolar disorder’s waves crash on her shore,
As schizophrenia’s whispers echo evermore.

Her loved ones, they couldn’t understand,
The turmoil raged like a stormy land.
They rejected her with words that cut deep,
Leaving her to face the demons, asleep.

Her thoughts, a jumbled mess, like a puzzle unsolved,
As paranoia’s grip tightens, her heart evolves.
The world, a distorted lens, through which she views,
A reality warped by the voices that accuse.

Oh, Shamyne, dear one, don’t lose your way,
Through the darkness that surrounds, there’s still a ray.
Of hope, of love, of light that shines so bright,
Guiding you through the blackest of nights.

You are strong, though your mind may stray,
You are brave, though the voices whisper, night and day.
You are loved, though rejected, by those who don’t see,
The beauty, the worth, that’s you, wild and free.

Shamyne, dear one, hold on to hope’s refrain,
For you are not alone in this struggle, this pain.
Some care, who understand, who see,
The beauty, the strength, that’s you, wild and free.

By :Shamyne Mwila
Facebook: Shamyne Mwila

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