Lifeline

By Eliza Consuelo Bellones

There was a time almost three years ago when I didn’t think I’d ever feel like myself again. Sometimes, I remember the abyss I fell into and wonder what brought me back. I always have the same answer: hope.

It’s hard to hold onto hope when you’re barely gasping for air. Just after my fifteenth birthday, I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. For many of those around me, this came as a total surprise; I had always been so high-functioning. Mental illnesses can be overt, but they often present themselves in very subtle ways. Looking back, I realize how easy it is for pain to go unnoticed– not because people don’t care, but because we don’t always know how to look for it.

We live in a world that celebrates resilience, where “I’m fine” feels like the correct answer. And for a long time, I tried to live that way, pretending I was okay even when I wasn’t. But the truth is, no one can carry everything alone. At some point, the armor I built to protect myself started to feel like its own kind of pain. And in that armor breaking, the kindness of others began to reach me. It was their patience, their small, steady acts of care, that pulled me back toward the surface.

When I think about that time now, what stands out most isn’t the darkness itself, but the small lights that helped me find my way through it. Kindness showed up quietly: in messages I didn’t always answer, in people who stayed patient, in moments of gentleness I didn’t think I deserved. Those gestures didn’t erase the pain, but they softened it. They reminded me that even when my own hope faltered, I could borrow a little bit of someone else’s.

Years later, I have learned that kindness can be life-saving in ways we rarely recognize. It doesn’t always look heroic. Sometimes it’s just showing up, listening without fixing, or treating someone with softness when the world feels unbearably harsh. The truth is, we can’t always see what someone is carrying. And while we can’t take away their pain, we can make it a little easier to bear.

Kindness didn’t just make things easier. It reminded me that I still mattered to someone. And many times, that reminder is what kept me tethered to the world.  It taught me that healing isn’t about erasing the hard parts, but about noticing the small moments that make life feel possible again — the laughter that fills quiet spaces, the pride in doing something you love, the warmth of being held by people who care. Those are the moments that build hope, piece by piece, until one day you realize you’ve found your way back to yourself.

I don’t share my story because it’s over, or because I’ve figured it all out. Healing doesn’t have a finish line. I share it because it reminds me, and perhaps someone else, that gentleness still matters. That hope, no matter how faint, can be nurtured through care. And that always, the greatest thing we can do is choose to be kind.

I think about that often now, especially when the world feels particularly harsh. We may never know what someone else is fighting through, but we can make the world a little gentler for them. Maybe this is how healing works: one quiet act of care at a time. Because sometimes, the smallest act of kindness is what helps someone find their way back to hope.