In honour of World Mental Health Day this October, we invited guest writers to reflect on the theme of “Living With It,” exploring the quiet day-to-day of mental health struggles. Our first essay comes from Melanie Lobo who dives into navigating love, trauma and faith, framed by her complicated childhood and her long-term healthy relationship.
Nobody warned me about the side effects of a healthy, loving relationship when one grew up in a dysfunctional family.
I was split into two parts. One carried the burden of an eldest daughter. The sharpness in my voice, the rage and thorns laced in my words, with an exterior of “I am fine” and “I can do it by myself”. Another version of me is free, a voice that coos with the wind, where I can shut off my brain and let go of the reins.
Nobody talks about the wounds that glisten when someone loves you so deeply that it hurts. My body tore open and stretched apart. My throat closed on itself because I did not know what being loved felt like. Or what it is like to receive affection without a transaction.
The fact that my inner child was hugged for the first time. Not with touch but with words that embraced me and held me tight. The voice that is gentle even when I’m wrong. It felt like an ambulance slammed into a tree. The siren still ringing.
The present reality isn’t any better. The walls of the house I live in were always crimson, but now they’ve turned into oxblood. Watching my parents argue is a daily ordeal, but now their voices feel louder. Their words cut sharper. Nothing changed, except me.
I am loved by someone whom I don’t share a house with. I live in an environment of hate, and I can’t shut out the red. It’s still brazened.
“I have so much grief, even when it involves no death. Maybe it is mine, and it’s pouring. Everyone’s there for a funeral. With an umbrella. Except me.”
Experiencing love reminded me of all the memories that I shut away. The words I heard when I was a child — a product of hate. Dirty. Soiled.
My partner can never erase those wounds. For when they turn into scars, they’ll still stick to my skin. Nor is it his job. Since last year, it’s only been louder. I could not ignore it any longer. My emotions were either too dry or too wet.
I did not want to feel seen. It was scary. It still is. As I write this, my heart still races.
“My faith went through several trials and tribulations. I had anger, pain from losing my mobility, and frustration with a body that is always sick. I hated every bit of it. “
I have so much grief, even when it involves no death. Maybe it is mine, and it’s pouring. Everyone’s there for a funeral. With an umbrella. Except me.
When I spoke of my feelings to my therapist, I portrayed them as facts. I don’t know how not to ruminate in a house that is always noisy. It wasn’t until she said 6 words that cracked open the ball of grief.
“You are a child of god.” She spoke.
My faith went through several trials and tribulations. I had anger, pain from losing my mobility, and frustration with a body that is always sick. I hated every bit of it. The limitations, the missed opportunities, the friendships and memories. Until last year.
In 2025, I didn’t know where I was going. I had no source of income. I often cried to God, asking him if he hated me. If I hurt him. Whether my sins were so heavy that I deserved this grief? That was my lowest point of faith.
Yet, he did not turn his face from me. Within a month, I began a journey that changed my lifestyle, gave me flexibility, covered my healthcare bills, and opened up a career I only ever wished for.
In the last year, I’ve had several conversations with him — words he heard without my lips speaking them. My life still had its trials. Rather, the worst year of my life. I had practically given up on living.
“I still have a long road to get where I want to be. I know I’ll get there in time. My life isn’t perfect, and that’s alright.”
Whenever I cried or lost my way, he would reach out to me in mediums I didn’t expect — calling me his daughter. He was there on the days I did not want to live, and the days my lips curved into a smile. I knew I wasn’t alone. It was still hard. To believe. To have faith. I fell a thousand times, and I stood up a thousand more.
Over the past year, my faith only grew stronger. So, the thought that I’m God’s child wasn’t difficult to swallow. I am his child before I am my parents’. That saved me.
My parents still argue. I don’t agree with their choices. I care for them even when my heart breaks. They care for me, sometimes, maybe, always. My partner adores me, and I love him with all my heart. My career is on a steep hill, but I have faith it’ll work out. I still feel hurt. I still have a long road to get where I want to be. I know I’ll get there in time. My life isn’t perfect, and that’s alright.
Perhaps the only virtue of a loveless home is the longing it creates for God’s love.
Written by Melanie Lobo| Edited by Malvika Padin
(Images courtesy of guest writer)
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