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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My name doesn’t matter. What matters is what happened, because it happens to many of us. I grew up in a small village, thinking I’d marry young, have kids, and farm the land like my mother and her mother before her. It was the only life I knew then.

Then came the drought. The crops withered. The animals died. My family struggled. My father, desperate, decided I should marry a man from the city. He was older, had a good job, and could provide. I didn’t want to, but I knew it was for the good of my family. It felt like a heavy stone in my stomach.

City life was overwhelming. So many people, so much noise, so much I didn’t understand. My husband was kind enough, but we just didn’t connect. He worked long hours, and I stayed home, cleaning and cooking. I felt lost and useless. I missed my family, the familiar smells of the farm, the comforting rhythm of village life.

One day, I stumbled upon a small tailoring shop near the market. The owner, a woman named Fatima, was teaching young girls how to sew. I watched them, fascinated. I remembered my grandmother teaching me to mend clothes back in the village. An idea sparked in my mind.

I asked Fatima if I could learn. She smiled and said, ‘Of course, my dear. There’s always room for one more.’ It wasn’t easy. My fingers were clumsy at first. I made mistakes. But Fatima was patient, and the girls were encouraging. Slowly, I started to learn. I learned to cut fabric, to sew straight lines, to create beautiful patterns.

Sewing gave me something to focus on, something to be proud of. I started making clothes for my neighbors, then for people in the market. My small earnings helped my family back in the village. I felt useful again, like I was contributing. It wasn’t the life I imagined, but it was my life, and I was building it with my own hands.

My husband saw how happy I was. He started bringing me fabric scraps from his work. He even helped me set up a small sewing corner in our house. We started talking more, sharing our days. He began to appreciate my effort and skill.

It wasn’t a fairy tale ending, but it was real. I wasn’t the farmer I thought I’d be, but I was a tailor, a provider, a woman who found her own path when life took an unexpected turn. And that, I realized, was enough. Sometimes, it’s about finding the strength to embrace the changes that  life throws at you and creating something new from the pieces.

Life rarely goes as planned. It’s okay to find your own way, even if it’s different from what you expected. Don’t be afraid to try new things and discover hidden talents. Support other women, we are stronger together. And never underestimate the power and authority that God instilled in you.

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I’m not a joke, I’m human too,
With feelings that are real and true,
I care and love, I feel and see,
And my emotions are a part of me.

Don’t reduce me to a jest or play,
I’m a person with feelings every day,
I have a heart that beats and loves,
And words that hurt can leave their doves.

It’s okay if you think like that,
But know that my feelings are where I am at,
I’m still a person, with hopes and fears,
And kindness can calm my tears.

I breathe and live, I laugh and cry,
I have a soul that’s sensitive and high,
I feel the pain, I feel the joy,
And my emotions are a part of my employ.

Don’t dismiss me, don’t make me small,
I’m a human being, with feelings that enthrall,
I have a voice, I have a heart,
And words of kindness can make us never part.
So let’s be kind, let’s be real,

Let’s treat each other with love and feel,
For we’re all humans, with hearts that ache,
And words of kindness can make us awake.

Let’s walk this path, with empathy and care,
Let’s lift each other, with love and share,
For we’re all in this, together as one,
And kindness can make our journey just begun.

It’s okay if you think like that,
But know that my feelings are where I am at,
I’m still a person, with hopes and dreams,
And kindness can make my heart beam.

By: Grace Banda

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Emotional being,

We are with our emotions
Emotions pokes the tip of my nail
Searching for peace, to find nothing relatable,
living within me, and then to find nothing at all.
The sun pumps my smile – a new plum of smoke
straight into the my awareness,
A loud guilt that pierced through and out.

My face spoke volume, my heart dancing,
eyes sweating out the mental lies, all in the name of fear.
The hardcore realization.
This feeling is loud, lines cemented a hard pillar,
Upon this cliff, ill push on.

Love supersedes every emotion,
Peace contains every mess.
A  dream of hope to find check with my emotions,
In the altar of honesty,
A reality of freedom.

My Emotional being

By: Nonny

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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

Social handle:

Facebook

(20+) Facebook

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I am Joyce Mojapelo, 33 years old, and my life’s journey has been shaped by both deep loss and incredible restoration. I grew up in a warm, loving home with both my parents. My father was gentle and kind; my mother was strict yet deeply caring, generous, and protective. Childhood was filled with laughter, sports, and ambition. I excelled in athletics and volleyball, even earning the opportunity to represent District 4. After Matric, my dream was to study journalism. Among my friends, I was the investigator, the one who dug up stories and kept everyone informed. But in 2008, my world turned upside down.

In November that year, I lost my father to a stroke. Just eight months later, in July 2009, my mother went to work one Saturday and never returned. She had shown no signs of illness. At just 17, I was forced to navigate the unreality of losing both parents in less than a year. I couldn’t grieve fully; I had to stay strong for my younger brother. My dreams felt buried alongside my mother, and fear took hold of me-fear of dreaming, of planning for the future, and of dying suddenly.

To make matters worse, rejection from relatives left me feeling unwanted and undeserving of a good life. Five months after my mother’s passing, my brother and I moved to Echo Youth Development Centre (A place of safety). Even before we arrived, God already begun sending help through Pastor Fortune Khubayi, who supported us when he could. At Echo, I experienced something I desperately needed: unconditional love. Even when I pushed people away, they remained patient and refused to give up on me. Strangers became vessels of God’s promise: “I will never leave you nor forsake you”.

During my time there, we often took part in outreach trips to underprivileged villages, such as Matlala in Limpopo. Those experiences planted a seed in my heart- a passion for bringing hope to the hopeless by sharing my story. I later realised that this was my mother’s influence; she often welcomed Zimbabwean women into our home, gave them food, and gave them clothes.

The loss of my parents triggered years of depression and anxiety. The fear of death consumed me so much that I avoided setting long-term goals. I honestly didn’t believe I’d live past 25. But when I did, I made a choice to be intentional about my healing. I sought therapy, committed to prayer, and took antidepressants when necessary. The journey was far from perfect; there were moments when I stopped treatment altogether. But over time, I embraced the process. Therapy helped me recognise my triggers, to unlearn destructive behaviors, and most  importantly, heal my inner child. God proved to be a God of restoration. He renewed my dreams, restored my confidence, and showed me that my pain could serve a greater purpose. Today, I am the Chairperson of Focus Mamelodi Community NPO, an organisation addressing social challenges. Life still has challenges, but my approach is different now. I know that healing is not a destination; it is a lifelong journey. The pain may have shaped me, but it no longer defines me.

On 23 August, Focus Mamelodi Community NPO will host an Anti-Abuse Campaign to educate the community about the consequences of abuse and the importance of complete healing. I hope that my story reminds others that no matter how dark the road feels, restoration is possible.

If there is one truth I have learned, it is this: You are not what happened to you. Your past may shape you, but it does not have to limit you. Healing is possible-and with God by your side, nothing is impossible.

Socials:

My TikTok account :@mmusi.elevate
Facebook: JJ. Elavate

The post From Deep Loss to Restoration appeared first on Sheevolves.world.

My name is Grace Banda, and I’m thrilled to share my story with you. Growing up, I faced numerous challenges that tested my resolve and character. However, with God’s grace, I’m here today to share my journey of resilience, faith, and triumph.

One of the most significant challenges I faced was finding my purpose and passion. I struggled to identify what I wanted to do with my life, and I often felt lost and uncertain. However, with the support of my loved ones and mentors, I discovered my passion for writing and through communication.

As I pursued my passion, I encountered numerous obstacles, including self-doubt, fear, and criticism. There were times when I felt like giving up, but I refused to let my challenges define me. Instead, I chose to use them as opportunities to grow, learn, and become stronger.

I remember when I first started writing, I was terrified of what others would think. I was afraid of being rejected, being criticized, or judged. However, I didn’t let my fear hold me back. I continued to write, and with each passing day, I grew more confident and determined.

Through my journey, I’ve learned valuable lessons about perseverance, faith, and the importance of never giving up. I’ve come to realize that our struggles are not unique, but our responses to them can be. We can choose to let our challenges break us, or we can use them
as opportunities to grow, learn, and become stronger.

I’ve also learned the importance of surrounding myself with positive influences and supportive people. My loved ones, mentors, and friends have been instrumental in my journey, providing me with encouragement, guidance, and support.

To every girl out there, I want you to know that you’re not alone. The world may be full of challenges and doubters, but don’t let that hold you back. You’re stronger than you think, and you’re capable of overcoming anything. Keep pushing forward, and never lose faith in yourself
and your abilities.

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From the moment I could speak, my mother, a Sunday school teacher with a heart full of faith, taught me and all my siblings how to pray. It began with simple words of gratitude before meals. Then came morning prayers for guidance, which we prayed as sunlight crept through the curtains. At night, just before sleep takes over my body, I would press my hands together and tell God about my day.

As I grew a bit older, so did my prayers. Sunday school lessons turned the Lord’s Prayer into second nature, recited as easily as my ABCs. Prayer became routine, steady, like breathing.

But now?
Now, my prayers don’t come in neat, memorized lines. Some days, they’re raw.Unfiltered. A choked-out “Why me?” when the pain digs its claws in deep. Other days, when laughter comes easy and the weight lifts, my prayers spill over: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, Lord.

Living with chronic pain is like living with a thief, one that steals moments without warning. One second, I’m fine… the next, pain shoots through my body like lightning, and the world shrinks to just me and the ache. But this journey has taught me something… Life is fragile. Borrowed time. And in that truth, I’ve learned to cherish the small things, the warmth of a cup of tea, a friend’s voice on the phone, a quiet morning when my body lets me breathe.

Prayer isn’t what it used to be. It’s no longer just reciting words I learned as a child. It’s alive. Messy. Real.

Sometimes, it’s a yell into the dark. Other times, it’s a heart-to-heart with God, tears rolling down my cheeks, some from joy, some from the kind of pain that makes you whisper, “How much longer… for how long do I have to suffer?” Some nights, when words fail, I sing through the hurt because worship doesn’t need perfect words.

In the quiet, I remember my mother’s voice guiding those first prayers. I wonder if she knew she was planting seeds of hope that would hold me up on days when standing felt impossible. Her faith still lights my path, even when I can’t see the way forward.

These days, my prayer is simple… God, May Your Will Be Done – not mine. Whether that means a moment’s relief or strength to endure, I’m learning to trust Him with it. To center myself in Him, even when the storm rages.

Because prayer isn’t about having the right words. It’s showing up with your broken pieces and saying, “Here I am. Again.” It’s knowing you’re heard, even when the only thing you can offer is silence.

And that? That’s enough. A promise that keeps me going, a light that never goes out.

By: Mutshidzi

The post The Prayers That Held Me~ By Mutshidzi appeared first on Sheevolves.world.