How do you know when you need professional help? How do you know when enough is enough? How do you know when things are no longer in your own hands?

 For seven months, I had been admission-free from IMH. I had also been attending the IMH Transitional Care Programme (TCP) for six months, doing everything I could to stay well.

 Then my admission-free streak ended. I use an app called I Am Sober to track the days I have been free from self-harm and suicide attempts. I think many people use this app to keep track of how long they have remained free from harmful behaviours, to build confidence, and to celebrate the progress they have made.

 When you have to reset the counter, it can feel as if you have failed or that all the progress you made has been erased. But I have come to realise that resetting the counter does not erase how far I have already come. The number may go back to zero, but my experiences, the days I made it through, and the progress I gained along the way are still there. 

That streak ended. But my journey did not. I was admitted in June 2026.

 The admission happened because my depression had been getting worse. I had also missed my last psychiatry appointment, so I wasn't able to get my medications reviewed. I reached a point where I knew I couldn't keep myself safe over the weekend anymore.

 Walking into IMH Emergency Services was terrifying. That place holds a lot of traumatic memories for me from a previous admission, in 2025. When I heard that I was going to Block 3 General Ward, I remembered hiding in the toilet and locking myself inside. Eventually, they found me and managed to open the door. The next thing I remember was being swung onto a bed and restrained. I still remember one of the nurses telling me, “If you keep moving, I will tie tighter.”

 I was scared of men because of my past trauma, and yet I was pinned down on the bed by male police officers. That experience stayed with me. That is why IMH isn't somewhere I could simply walk into confidently.

 So when I walked into IMH again, I walked in alone, scared, anxious, and honestly wondering if I was making the right decision. I was also uncertain about who my ward mates would be and what I would experience this time.

 But the words from my counsellor and social worker helped me slowly understand and accept that IMH could also be a source of help and a safe place for me, rather than somewhere dangerous. I replayed the message multiple times because I needed to hear those words again and again before I could internalise that sense of safety:

“I am safe right now.”

I was still afraid and uncertain. But despite all that, I chose to seek help.

Looking back, I realise that courage did not mean that I walked into IMH without fear. I walked in scared, but I walked in anyway. Maybe that was courage.

 After waiting for more than an hour, the doctor finally called me in.

 As I walked into the consultation room, one voice kept replaying in my mind—my counsellor's.

"You're alright. You can do this."

 Those simple words didn't remove my fear, but they gave me just enough courage to speak. I told the doctor everything.

 "I can't keep myself safe anymore. I need help. I don't think I can manage this by myself. I would like to stay until I can see my counsellor on Monday."

 The doctor asked the usual questions.

 "Are you suicidal? Have you made any plans? Are you going to hurt yourself?"

 After answering honestly, I waited. Eventually, I was told I would be admitted to 23B Short Stay Unit (SSU). Oddly enough I felt relieved. This was the same ward where I had my first adult admission back in September 2024. It was familiar, and felt safe. It was a place where healing had begun once before.

 During that admission, I remembered, I met two girls. We started talking. We laughed. We watched television together while our phones were locked away. Eventually another girl joined us, and before long, the four of us were spending almost every day together. We shared stories, joked around. We even sang karaoke in the ward. For the first time in a long while, my mind felt lighter, felt peaceful.

 Depression has a way of convincing you that you're alone. But in that ward, I was reminded that healing can happen in the company of people who understand your pain. I discovered a strength within myself that I didn't know I had. Being around people who understood my pain reminded me that I was capable of healing, too. Eventually, all four of us were discharged.

 As I'm writing this, I'm actually sitting in the very same ward, in the short stay unit. I’ve been admitted again. I’ve seen familiar faces again, met new people, and once again found kindness in a place many people fear.

 Looking back, I realise something. I do know when I need help. The difficult part hasn't been recognising it. The difficult part has been giving myself permission to accept it.  The final decision had to come from me, and it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. But I made it, and I don't regret it.

 Sometimes, asking for help isn't giving up. Sometimes, asking for help is choosing to stay alive long enough for tomorrow to have a chance. That's when seeking professional help isn't a sign of failure. It's a sign of courage. We don't have to wait until we've completely fallen apart before reaching out.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can say is: "I can't do this alone anymore." And that's okay.

 Recovery was never meant to be a journey we walk alone. For each of us, having a good community of people who can relate to us is important. When we are surrounded by people who understand what we are going through, it’s easier to open up about how we feel. Having a supportive community is important, but it doesn't have to stop there. We can also involve people we trust, such as a family member, counsellor, social worker, or another trusted person. Letting someone know how we’re are feeling can be difficult, but none of us have to carry everything by ourselves.

 Another thing I've learned is that recovery isn't measured by how long a "streak" lasts. For a while, I was proud of being seven months admission-free, and looking back I still am. But when I needed help, I had to remind myself that protecting my life was far more important than protecting a number.

 Breaking a streak doesn't mean we've failed. It doesn't erase the progress each of us has made, the coping skills built, or the healing already done. Recovery isn't a straight line—it has setbacks, detours, and difficult seasons. I recognised my limits, reached out, and accepted the help I needed. I'd rather break a streak than break myself.

 Recovery isn't about never needing help again. Recovery is about recognising when we do need help—and having the courage to ask for it.

Gina is a 23-year-old youth advocate who is currently pursuing early childhood education. She loves working with children and believes that everyone’s mental health starts from a young age. By sharing her story, she hopes to inspire others on their mental health journeys. Gina has also created a free resource directory to help young children (7-12) & youths (13-25) easily access mental health support, which can be found here: (https://linktr.ee/ginaaax.hb). She also really likes bubble tea and baking.

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Picture by Gina with ChatGPT