The courage to be heard

Independence, vulnerability, and learning to ask for help

Sometimes, the hardest thing for someone who's learned to carry everything alone is admitting they don't have to. I've been thinking about this a lot lately.

This year’s World Mental Health Day theme, “Lived experiences heard: real voices, real change” feels incredibly personal to me.

If there is one thing my experiences have taught me, it's that sometimes being heard can make all the difference. Not to be fixed. Not to get advice and nor being told to be strong. Just to be heard.

And for someone like me, who has spent so much of her life trying to figure things out on her own, learning to let other people in has been one of the hardest, yet most important, lessons.

I learned to be independent before I even knew what independence meant.

If you know me, you probably know I'm extremely independent. But what you might not know is that my independence didn't begin when I moved to another country or became financially independent. It began when I was about three or four years old.

I was the oldest daughter in my family. Both my parents worked, and when I was very young, my mother had to travel far for her job. Some mornings, she left home around five, long before I woke up. I remember waking up, picking out my own clothes, and getting ready for preschool. My grandmother helped me with breakfast, and my father took me to school. I was only four, but I was already learning to handle small parts of my life by myself. After preschool, I would wait at my teacher's house or a friend's home until my father finished work and came to pick me up.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder what that little girl was thinking. Did she understand why she had to wait? Did she feel lonely? Or had she accepted that this was how life worked?

Honestly, I don't know! What I do know is that I learned very early to rely on myself.

And as I grew older, that independence became part of my identity. When my younger siblings came along, I wasn't just their older sister. I took on responsibilities for caring for them, feeding them, and helping raise them in ways that, looking back, were a lot for a child herself.

I know my parents worked hard. I know they had responsibilities, pressures, and circumstances that I may not have fully understood then. I can acknowledge all of that. But I can also acknowledge something else.

I was a child, too!

A child who deserved care without feeling responsible for so much. For a long time, I was proud to be the independent one. The responsible one. The one who could solve problems. And in many ways, I still am. But as I've gotten older, I've started to wonder how much of that independence came from real freedom and how much came from learning I couldn't always rely on others to show up when I needed them.

That's also why, for so many years, I dreamed of leaving home, not necessarily because I wanted to be alone. But because I wanted to have control over my own life. To make my own decisions. To create an environment where I could feel comfortable and secure. To build a life where I wasn't constantly adapting to circumstances I couldn't control.

And eventually, I did. I moved to another country. I built a life for myself. I learned to navigate unfamiliar places, difficult situations, and important decisions largely on my own. I genuinely love the independence I have today. But I'm also beginning to understand that something can be both a strength and a response to difficult experiences.

My independence has helped me build the life I have today. But perhaps the little girl who learned to rely on herself so early also deserves to know that she doesn't have to do everything alone anymore.

And that's something I'm still learning.

A cup of tea that went cold

I still carry a memory from years ago very close to my heart. I was at university, going through a difficult time, and I visited the university medical officer. I hadn't gone there expecting an emotional conversation. I needed some medication and a referral to see a psychiatrist. That was the practical reason I walked into her office. But somewhere in that conversation, I started talking. And she listened. She had just been served her tea when I walked in. I remember her cup of tea sitting there while we spoke. She kept listening, and listening, until her tea went cold. I don't remember every word we exchanged that day. I don't remember exactly how long I was sitting there. But I remember how she made me feel. She didn't rush me. She didn't make me feel like I was taking up too much of her time. She didn't make me feel that what I was experiencing was too much or too complicated.

She just listened, calmed me with really kind words, and encouraged me to navigate my situation better. And when I left, she hugged me, a warm, motherly hug. Even now, years later, thinking about that moment makes me emotional. I sometimes wish I could go back, find her, and tell her how much that meant to me. Maybe bring her a cup of tea that she could actually drink while it was still warm.

Because I don't think she knew how much that small act of kindness mattered. She wasn't my therapist. She didn't know my whole story. She chose to be present with me when I needed it. And somehow, that was enough to make that moment unforgettable.

Sometimes, the people who make the biggest difference in our lives don't even realise they've done anything extraordinary.

The unexpected comfort of talking to strangers

It's interesting how some of the moments when I've felt most relieved have come from conversations with people who barely knew me. That medical officer. The psychiatrist I spoke to before that. And now, my therapist. I've often wondered why.

Maybe it's because there is a kind of freedom in talking to someone who is not part of your daily life. Someone who doesn't already have an idea of who you should be. Someone who is not your friend, parent, sibling, or coworker. Someone you don't have to protect from your feelings. When I talk to my therapist, I know I can be open without worrying that I'm affecting a relationship I deal with every day. I can say things I haven't fully understood. I can change my mind. I can admit that I'm confused, frustrated, hurt, or just tired. I don't have to make my feelings sound logical before I can share them. And I don't have to pretend I already know why I feel the way I do. That feels comforting.

Of course, professional support is more than talking to a stranger. There is training, care, confidentiality, and a therapeutic relationship that makes that space possible. But for me, one of its most meaningful qualities is the freedom to be honest without feeling judged.

Last year, I started therapy

Last year, I chose to get professional help again. Not because I haven't learned from my past experiences. It's not because meditation, self-care, or all those years of trying to understand myself didn't work. It's because I realised I couldn't figure everything out by myself. I had learned to live with feelings without really understanding them. Patterns I could see but didn't always know how to change. Experiences I thought I had dealt with, only to find they still shaped how I reacted in some situations. And sometimes, no matter how much I thought about it, I kept coming back to the same questions. Therapy has helped me look at those things in a new way. It gives me tools, new perspectives, and a safe place to explore things I found hard to sort out on my own.

And it is not always easy. Sometimes, doing the work means facing things I'd rather avoid. Having talks I'd rather put off. Recognising feelings that are easier to think about than to really feel. Sometimes I leave a session with more questions than answers. But I'm learning that understanding ourselves is not always a simple, straight process. And maybe one of the most important things I've learned is this:

Seeking professional help isn't the opposite of helping yourself. Sometimes, it's one of the most important ways you can help yourself.

I believe in doing the work

People close to knows me knows how curious I am about understanding things. When something interests me, I want to learn about it. I want to go deeper, connect the dots, question what I know, and understand why things are the way they are. Mental well-being has been one of those interests for years. I've practised meditation for a long time. I've explored mindfulness, self-care, psychology, emotional awareness, and different ways of understanding ourselves. I've read, reflected, questioned, experimented, and learned from people around me. And I continue to do so.

But I also want to be clear about something. I'm not doing this alone. I've learned from professionals, people who have shared their experiences, conversations, books, and the kindness of people who probably have no idea how much they've influenced me. My own effort matters. But so does the support I've received. Both can exist together.

I can take responsibility for my well-being and still ask someone to help me understand what I'm experiencing. I can be independent and still need support. I can practise mindfulness and still have difficult days. I can be passionate about mental health and still be working through my own challenges. None of those things cancels each other out.

We were never meant to do everything alone

The older I get, the more I question the idea that being strong means managing everything by ourselves. We're human beings. We need connection. We need understanding. We need to feel that we belong somewhere. Sometimes, we need someone to sit with us as we try to make sense of what we cannot yet put into words. That person might be a friend. It might be a family member. It might be a professional. Or someone we meet unexpectedly, whose kindness stays with us for years.

I think there is something deeply human about needing one another. And yet, asking for help can feel like one of the most vulnerable things we do, especially when we're used to being the person who has everything under control. I'm still learning how to do that.

I'm still learning that I don't need to reach a breaking point before I'm allowed to ask for support. That I don't have to justify why something feels difficult. That I can be grateful for the life I've built and still struggle with parts of it. And that being vulnerable doesn't take away from my independence. It simply makes room for another part of being human.

The seed that keeps growing

Last year, on World Mental Health Day, I shared the story behind Soulful with Nipuni. I described it as a little seed, born from pain, watered with learning, and grown with love. A space inspired by my own experiences and my passion for mental well-being, mindfulness, self-care, and intentional living. A year later, I'm still figuring out what I want this space to become.

But I know why it matters. I don't share these things because I've mastered the art of living well. I haven't. I don't share them because I'm always calm, emotionally balanced, or able to practise everything I've learned. I'm not. And I certainly don't share them because I believe my experiences make me an expert on anyone else's mental health. They don't!

I share because I know what it's like to have questions you don't know how to answer. I know how much difference it can make when someone listens. And I know how meaningful it can be to discover that you don't have to figure everything out alone. My experiences have made me curious. They've made me more compassionate. They've inspired me to keep learning and to speak more openly about something that still carries stigma in many communities. And they've reminded me that we can learn so much from one another.

To me, that's what Soulful with Nipuni is about.

Not perfection. Not having all the answers. Just being human, and making space for all the beautiful, complicated, sometimes uncomfortable things that come with it.

Real voices, real change

This year's World Mental Health Day theme has made me think again about that cup of cold tea. About a woman who listened to a young university student without knowing how much her kindness would mean years later. About the professionals who have helped me find words for things I couldn't explain. About the people whose stories have inspired me. And about how many others might be carrying things silently, unsure whether they can ask for help or whether anyone will understand.

I wish seeking mental health support felt as ordinary as seeking help for our physical health. I wish vulnerability weren't so often mistaken for weakness. And I wish more people had access to spaces where they could speak honestly and feel genuinely heard. Because listening is not always a small thing, sometimes, it changes the way someone sees themselves. Sometimes, it helps them take the next step. And sometimes, years later, they still remember the person who listened until her tea went cold.

I don't know where this little seed will grow next. I'm still learning, still doing the work and still discovering parts of myself I don't fully understand. But I'm no longer trying to convince myself I have to do it all alone. And maybe that's one of the most important things I've learned.

Independence has taught me to stand on my own. Vulnerability is teaching me to let others stand beside me.

And I'm grateful for both!

With love and a little more courage to be vulnerable,

Nipuni Dissanayake

Soulful with Nipuni

10 October 2026 | World Mental Health Day