Losing Myself and Finding My Way Back — A Student’s Mental Health Story from the Pandemic

Before the pandemic, I was living the kind of life most 19-year-olds dream about. I was in my second year of Cégep in Lennoxville (Quebec), living away from home, figuring out who I was. I didn’t know a single person when I started there — by the end, I had three different friend groups that felt like family. I was outgoing, social, and loved being surrounded by people. Dorm life, classes, parties, late-night food runs — it was freedom, and I was soaking it in.

When COVID hit, everything stopped.

At first, I honestly didn’t think it was a big deal. I remember packing up and driving home thinking, “Two extra weeks off? Awesome.” I couldn’t have known how long it would actually last — or what it would do to my mental health.

It started slowly. I was home, doing nothing, just playing video games to kill time. That was the only way I could still connect with my friends, so it felt harmless. But then it turned into the only thing I wanted to do. I stopped leaving my room. I started eating frozen dinners just so I could avoid the kitchen and get back to my screen as fast as possible.

The isolation messed with my sense of reality. I didn’t feel like me anymore. I was numb, detached. As much as I had joked in the past about wanting to skip class and just game all day, now that it was real — it felt empty. The days blurred together. I started feeling like I had no purpose, like I was just… taking up space.

And that’s when the darker thoughts started creeping in.

Before the pandemic, I had never dealt with anxiety or depression. I didn’t even know what it really meant to feel mentally unwell. But over the months, I slipped further into that place. It felt like I was disappearing — from my life, from my friends, even from myself.

I thought about whether being here was even worth it. That’s not something I’ve ever admitted out loud before. I didn’t talk to anyone about how bad it got. Not because I didn’t have people who cared — my friends would’ve listened in a heartbeat — but because I was scared. I didn’t want them to worry. I didn’t want them to look at me differently. So I kept it all inside.

But silence didn’t help. It made everything worse.

It wasn’t until much later — after some really low points — that I realized I couldn’t carry it all alone. I started opening up, little by little. Talking to my best friend about therapy, about anxiety, about the stuff we never used to talk about. I started to understand that asking for help doesn’t mean you’re weak — it means you’re human. And healing isn’t a straight line. It’s slow, messy, and sometimes really hard.

I still struggle. My mental health didn’t magically reset when the world opened up again. I’ve had to work on it. I’ve had to learn how to sit with difficult feelings instead of running from them. I’ve had to unlearn the idea that I always need to be the “fun, easy going guy” — and start being the real version of myself, even when that version is hurting.

But I’m still here. I’m still trying. And that means something.

To anyone else who felt lost during the pandemic — who still feels lost — I just want to say: you’re not alone. So many of us are carrying quiet pain from those years. Some of us are still figuring out how to talk about it. But that’s okay. You don’t have to have it all together. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.

Reach out. Say something. Tell a friend. Talk to someone you trust. Therapy helped me more than I expected — just having a place to be honest without fear or shame. The first step is the hardest, but it opens the door to getting better.

You might not ever go back to who you were before the pandemic — I know I won’t. But honestly, I don’t want to.

Because the version of me now? He’s stronger. He’s more aware. He knows what anxiety feels like, but he also knows how to handle it. I’ve built better habits, I’ve asked for help, and I’ve let the people around me see the real version of who I am — not just the one who always smiles and makes jokes, but the one who’s been through something and came out the other side.

I still have tough days — everyone does — but my life doesn’t feel heavy the way it used to. I have goals again. I have good people around me. I’ve started doing things that bring me joy outside of a screen. I’m taking better care of myself. I’m not just surviving anymore — I’m actually living again.

And if you’re someone who feels stuck in the dark, I promise: it doesn’t stay that way forever. Things can get better. You can feel like yourself again — or even discover a version of yourself you like more. One that’s grounded. One that’s real.

If I found my way back, you can too.