Whenever I stand near water, something shifts in me. It does not matter whether it is a wide loch, its surface barely moving under a low sky, or a narrow burn cutting through woods.
The sound of it, the movement, the faint smell of cold air and damp earth draw me into reflection, into a version of myself I barely recognise anymore.
When I was fifteen, in my final years of high school, water became part of how I coped with my mental health. In early 2021, I spent long stretches walking alone along the burn near my home or sitting by a reservoir.
Being near water calmed me. It gave me space to process thoughts I did not yet have the language to explain.
At the time, isolation felt like safety. I wanted the world to stop pressing in on me, to stop asking me to speak when words felt like exposure. I mistook being alone for being invisible.
Now, at twenty, I understand that what I wanted was relief from confusion, from social noise, and from a mind changing faster than I could understand.
I do not look back on those years with guilt or fear. The memories come softly and feel almost like someone else’s. They are proof that what once felt overwhelming can, with time, loosen its grip.
Socialising was always a burden. Being around other people felt wrong, as if I were missing something fundamental to interaction. That feeling followed me through my teenage years.
I would now argue it came from my inability to understand the changes happening in my own mind during puberty. I was deeply insecure, resistant to change, and sensitive to losing control.
Most days carried a low, persistent discomfort. The only real peace I felt was when I was alone, often doing nothing but thinking. That time mattered to me. It was not always depressive, but it was where I felt most like myself.
Over time, that solitude became unhealthy, not because being alone is dangerous, but because night was often the only time I felt able to take it. During the day, school demanded constant interaction.
I was exhausted, anxious around people and unable to concentrate, but I masked it as best I could. By the time I was home, the only quiet space left was late at night.
Instead of sleeping, I lay awake trying to understand myself. I replayed conversations, worried about how I came across, and tried to make sense of why everything felt so difficult.
The lack of sleep fed directly back into the next day. I felt foggy and on edge in class, detached from what was happening around me, getting through the day rather than engaging with it.
Socially, I struggled to connect with anyone beyond my one close friend because I lacked the energy and clarity to build anything else.
School quickly lost its importance to me. I stopped caring about grades or fitting in, and I imagine I was not easy to be around. People noticed that I struggled socially, but I did not talk about it. I did not have the language, and I did not want help.
My life settled into a pattern of grey days and sleepless nights. Overthinking brought a constant feeling of drowning. The most dangerous part was my determination not to let it show.
I believed the problem was internal, not something I could blame on the world. Still, no matter how hard I tried to reframe things, I could not see a place for myself in it.
That tension could not last forever. Resentment toward others grew quietly, alongside a fear of disappointing people I cared about. Eventually, the weight became unbearable.
The breaking point came in February, a few months before I turned sixteen. After a long day spent out with others and four days without sleep, I hit a limit.
Walking home with my brother, I cried from frustration and exhaustion. We parted with the usual promise of getting home safe, but this time I was not sure I would.
I went for my usual walk along the burn, hoping movement and cold air would clear my head. It was late, so instead of walking the length of it, I sat on the bridge that crossed the water.
The cold stands out most in my memory. The night felt empty, stripped of sound except for the rush below. My thoughts slipped away as I tried to gather them, everything feeling both too loud and impossibly distant. Despite the winter air, my mind felt overheated and frantic.
Parts of that night are simply gone. Not frightening or repressed, just absent. I remember crying. I remember the pressure of too many thoughts without being able to name them.
What cracked in me was not a decision. It was a collapse. All the small things I had been holding finally tipped out of balance. For a moment, the world seemed to lean, as if urging me toward something that was not really there.
The blur that followed is difficult to describe. A strange humming under my skin. A sense of being suspended between two versions of myself, neither fully in control.
When I plunged into the water, shock cut through everything else. The drop was not high, but the current pulled hard. What surprised me most was how fiercely I fought to stay afloat. That instinct brought my life into focus in a way nothing else had.
I pulled myself out further downstream, soaked and shaking. My mind felt strangely steady. There was fear, but also clarity. I had acted on a feeling that had been building for years, and yet something deeper in me had pushed back just as strongly.
Still in shock, I checked my phone and saw a message.
“I love you, bro. Get home safe.”
The simplicity of it grounded me. I did not tell him what had happened. I did not tell anyone for a long time. But walking home with those words, a small resolve formed. Not hope, exactly, but a promise to keep trying.
Nothing changed overnight. I did not wake up lighter or suddenly understand myself. The heaviness remained, but alongside it sat a thin strand of possibility.
Change came slowly. I still felt out of place and avoided many social situations, but moments of calm began to appear. Time helped. I laughed occasionally without questioning it. Being around people became tolerable, then sometimes enjoyable. Thinking about the future no longer filled me with dread.
My bond with my best mate shifted quietly. No defining conversation, just presence. His steadiness became something I leaned on even when he did not know it. Trust became the first anchor I built my recovery around.
From there, small successes accumulated. Confidence arrived one social moment at a time, until I realised I was stepping into life instead of pulling away from it.
Looking back now, I see how little language I had for what I was enduring. Research shows this experience is common. The World Health Organization estimates that roughly one in seven people aged 10 to 19 lives with a mental health condition.
My own experience was not dramatic in cinematic terms. It was a persistent strain, a long stretch of grey days and sleepless nights. That kind of chronic weight can quietly erode joy and self-trust, and in my case, it carried me toward a moment where giving up felt like an answer.
I understand now that it was not weakness. It was human vulnerability in a period defined by upheaval and change.
What helped was not a breakthrough or grand intervention. It was presence. A message from someone I trusted. Compassion without judgement. That became the ground from which I slowly moved forward.
Now, when I stand beside water, I feel the distance between then and now like a quiet current. The surface reflects whatever sky it is given, shifting without explanation.
The version of me at fifteen would not recognise who I am now. I live with more joy than I expected. I have friendships that feel natural. I have days when I simply enjoy being alive. The memory of that night returns softly, like someone else’s story, a younger version of myself doing his best.
I still go to the water to think. I go because it reminds me that change does not always announce itself. Sometimes, we are carried somewhere better without noticing how far we have travelled.
I stand there now, breathing in the cool air, grounded in a way I once could not imagine.
What matters is that I kept going.
What matters is that I am here.
Feature Image Credit: Dylan Burt