There’s a photo of me at age four pinned to my mother’s refrigerator. In this image, I stand beside a sunflower, its bright yellow petals open wide against a clear blue sky, towering over my curly hair.

I remember feeling proud of the love and light I bestowed upon that tiny seed, once so small it fit in my palm. “You’re as strong as a sunflower, Jade.”

But that memory fades in an instant. The sunflower is now crushed beneath a pair of scuffed leather shoes—my shoes. My worn boots, crumpled at the edges like the skin around my tired eyes, resist opening. Morning has arrived, but I’m not in my childhood kitchen; I’m in my college dorm.

The first thing I notice is my boots, haphazardly tossed in a corner with their laces strewn across the floor. My arms hang off the bed as I reach for my phone. The alarm blares, grating against my mind, and I wish it would just vanish, so I could fall back into sleep.

Crushed. My neck contorted. My eyelashes tangled. My muscles tight. A shard of sunlight spills onto my dark curls, as if to adorn me with yellow petals. “Remember, you’re a sunflower. You’re strong, somewhat tall, and beautiful.”

These affirmations don’t resonate in my mind at that moment; they arrive later, when I realize I should have treated myself with more kindness. For now, my eyes shut again. The once vibrant sunflower of a person retreats back into a twisted nightmare, only to wake up again with just five minutes to leave the house. It’s a different kind of recurring nightmare—perhaps a “daymare.” I jump up, feeling like I’m submerged in gravity.

Every day, I ponder why I feel so lazy, so incredibly foolish for not setting multiple alarms, for not making the sounds more jarring, or for not allowing enough sunlight to invade my eyes. Then I remember why I abandoned those strategies in the first place. “Use the bell alarm; it wakes you gently. Don’t let the first sound you hear be harsh. Be kind. Be kind. Be kind.” Yet, I still end up being harsh toward myself, blaming myself for every little mishap.

I struggle with major depressive disorder, ADHD, and OCD. Sometimes, it feels like a vile concoction that I try to ignore as I swallow it down. Labels can be helpful, yet frustrating. What drives me up the wall is when I deny the fact that neurotransmitters in my brain are misfiring, affecting my behavior—it’s not merely “me” being lazy or ungrateful. There’s something beyond my control at play.

Imposter syndrome creeps in because sometimes, I can wake up on time. I can submit my essay before the deadline. I can make it to the dining hall before 9 AM. So why can’t I achieve these feats every day?

Of course, today, this flawed little sunflower struggles to make it to breakfast, let alone my morning job. I give campus tours at the admissions office several times a week, something I genuinely enjoy, making it all the more painful when I find myself running late.

As I enter the building, I attempt to straighten up and smile at my coworkers. “They can’t know how messed up I am.” I stumble up the stairs, having forgotten to hydrate before leaving my room. My world feels unsteady. Unsurprisingly, that’s the result of skipping breakfast and dealing with low blood pressure. My mouth tastes like stale toothpaste. “Stop overthinking. Just keep moving. Smile.”

My friends are genuinely sweet, especially those on my shift this morning—let’s call them Flora and Aza. They know I tend to be late. They can see through my facade of nonchalance; at this point, I’m not even trying to hide it. Shame washes over me as I walk in. “You guys, I turned off my alarm and fell back asleep. I need to be electrocuted to wake up.”

It’s already 9:40 AM—not even that early. Their shifts started at 9 AM; mine began at 9:30 AM. I feel the weight of my lateness pressing into my mind. Yet, the harshest critic of all is still me.

But still. That’s no excuse, Jade. That’s a terrible habit. You’re ungrateful for this life, this job, these friends, and their understanding. “Everyone secretly despises you, you know that?” They’re just being polite.

I step into the side room and gulp down a cup of water. I have a fantastic metal water bottle in my dorm, adorned with stickers I carefully selected from bookstores across the East Coast. But here I am, drinking from a paper cup. And no, it’s not because I forgot my water bottle. I saw it this morning, but didn’t grab it.

It felt… contaminated that day. I hadn’t washed it in days, and I certainly didn’t have time to do so. But I was parched, so I pretended to forget my bottle and used a paper cup, betraying the environment in the process.

Before I can return to my seat, my phone rings. It’s a New York number that doesn’t look like spam. Somehow, I sense it’s important. So I answer, “Hello, this is Jade!”—my tour guide voice kicking in. It’s a hiring manager from an internship I applied for. I would have appreciated the experience it offered, but the application process was intense. I couldn’t complete everything in the time allotted, so I did the daunting thing: I asked for an extension, despite my aversion to doing so.

And he declined. Not rudely—he was very polite, explaining he needed to be fair to other applicants. He even suggested I could try again next week. Kind, professional. We handled it well.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling he was annoyed with me. A brief phone call, and I couldn’t help but think, “He’s upset with me for asking for more time. What kind of fool asks for an extension? Why didn’t I just complete it the other night? Why am I so stupid and ungrateful?”

Flora interrupts my spiraling thoughts, “What was that call about?”

I explain, and she nods.

Then my shift ends in a flash. I walk to lunch with Flora, who is in good spirits. The dining hall food is… well, dining hall food. I’m hyper-aware of myself, feeling like everyone is judging me. They think I’m lazy and ungrateful. “Why didn’t you finish that internship application on time?”

Oh, dear Jade. No one knows about that, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t care.

If only I could convince myself of that. Would it have mattered if I checked the box indicating I had a disability on the application? How does one request accommodations when they question the legitimacy of their ADHD, even after being diagnosed by a therapist?

After lunch, I head to the library before my next class. I open my laptop to begin an assignment, but instead, I find myself spiraling down a Google rabbit hole, searching for “ADHD accommodations.” I recognize some of the information related to my friends’ accommodations. I think, “But they genuinely have ADHD; I’m just pretending because I’m lazy and ungrateful.”

I used to be such a proactive student. Sure, I’ve always procrastinated, but not to this degree. Why can’t I get it together now? Why does it feel like I’m about to explode at any moment?

I slam my laptop shut (quietly, of course; it’s the library). I reach for a book for my short fiction class—a collection of short stories that looks intriguing. I read the first story the night before, and it was great. I want to lose myself in its pages until I need to catch the bus for class.

But I can’t. It feels as though bugs are trying to escape from my fingertips, and my eyes dart around the room. “Jade, this is what you aspire to do with your life: stories, storytelling, reading.” But without the pressure of an impending deadline, I just can’t open the book. It’s due in a few days, yet I want to read it. But I can’t.

Instead, I pop in my AirPods and listen to my favorite playlist, scrolling through my notes app and rewriting my to-do list. Stimulation, stimulation, stimulation. Sure, music brings me joy, and organizing my list is preferable to mindlessly scrolling through social media, but I still feel like I’m not accomplishing what I should be. So stupid, lazy, and ungrateful.

The day continues like a rollercoaster, ups and downs. I’m so busy that I barely have time to feel the weight of my self-awareness until I return to my room that night and see the clutter covering my floor—books, sweatshirts, and old readings. My water bottle, stained with who-knows-what. It’s absurd. The thought of not cleaning my room makes my skin crawl. Everything feels so contaminated. But what’s the point if I’ll just fail again tomorrow?

I crawl into bed after a shower, nearly 1 AM. I was already tired at 11; why did I let the night drag on? I start searching for ways to fall asleep faster, ways to wake up easier. I dread falling asleep because it means facing another morning. “Stupid, lazy, ungrateful.”

When I confide in my friends, family, and therapist—those who genuinely care about my mental health—they tell me: if your mental health professionals say you have x, then you do. You can’t blame yourself for every mistake or struggle. It’s okay to seek help.

But still.

Yet, I managed to wake up normally last Monday. I’ve successfully made it to breakfast in the past. I never asked for an extension before college. Why now?

Am I fabricating all of this?

Am I?

I feel foolish for spending so much time wrestling with my thoughts, feeling like a fragile fraud.

What would it take for me to feel like that sunflower from my childhood? What would it take to recognize I’m not simply a fragile, petal-headed girl? What would it take to accept that I’m not just stupid, lazy, or ungrateful, but rather that ADHD and MDD exist because they are genuine conditions affecting my mind? Understanding them could lead to effective solutions and treatments.

My thoughts could continue indefinitely.

And now, I find myself humming a catchy Maggie Rogers song—it’s truly a bop (a clear sign of my ADHD).

Writing serves as a relief, I suppose. I enjoy crafting songs and transforming the chaotic rhythm of my thoughts into beautiful melodies. But that doesn’t help me focus on my homework, wake up in the morning, or bloom into a vibrant flower ready to face the world.

How does one conclude a mismatched piece of writing?

With gratitude for the act of writing, perhaps—appreciating that it’s something I love. That words allow me to reshape my thoughts. That I’m (usually) not stupid, lazy, or ungrateful. That maybe, just maybe, someone else will feel less alone knowing they’re not the only one caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. That some days are tougher than others. That I’m not faking it—I’m truly trying my best.

But, still.

But, still.