Local Voices Collective

This week, I sat down with someone I’ll call Jane Doe. To honor her privacy, the conversation remains anonymous—but her presence and her words speak volumes.

Somewhere between the initial laughter and a casual back-and-forth, the conversation became a reminder of where dialogue can go when a space is intentional—when no one is rushing, performing, or holding back. What began with small talk and the ordinary rhythms of the day slowly unfolded into something deeper, the way it often does when people feel safe enough to stay a little longer with their thoughts.

Jane carries herself with a flowing ease. That was the first thing I noticed about her. The kind that can only come from having spent a great deal of time observing, listening, and learning. She’s thoughtful without being guarded, reflective without trying to impress. As the youngest in her family, she grew up watching the family dynamics play out long before she had language for them—learning early how much can exist beneath the surface of what families choose to talk about.

Mental health, in her household, was never theoretical. It was lived. With ease and without the common filter of she expressed growing up with an older sister who is clinically bipolar. Jane knew from a young age that something was different. Not because anyone sat her down to explain it, but because children often understand more than adults think—especially when silence fills the room.

She remembers hospital visits, the rules that didn’t need explanation, the small details that quietly told the truth and unfolded into her eyes opening up to a world that the adults kept away. She recounted taking shoelaces out before seeing her sister. Stuffed animals that couldn’t be given. The way adults spoke around the subject without naming it.

“I wasn’t told,” she said, “but I was a kid—and I wasn’t stupid.”

That awareness shaped her. It made her observant and sensitive. It made her empathetic. It made her grow up in ways she didn’t realize until much later. She learned to read energy, to sense when something wasn’t right, to notice patterns in behavior that others dismissed as personality flaws. Where some people saw impulsivity or distance, Jane saw someone struggling with something far beyond willpower.

And yet, even as mental health becomes more openly discussed in modern culture, Jane pointed out how rarely families want to admit it exists inside their own walls. There’s still a stigma—one that isn’t always loud or aggressive, but quiet and persistent. It shows up in labels like “difficult,” “dramatic,” or “exhausting.” It shows up in the choice to avoid the subject altogether.

“Even when people know,” she said, “they just don’t want to believe it’s real.”

The generational divide is real. Jane spoke about how older generations were often raised to survive, not to introspect. When you grow up worrying about food, safety, or stability, you don’t have the luxury of naming emotional nuance. Feelings get pushed aside. Mental health becomes something you “get through,” not something you explore.

That doesn’t make those generations cruel—it makes them inherited. Many of the coping mechanisms that once kept families alive now sit awkwardly in a world that finally has space to question them. And Jane is acutely aware of that tension.

Her parents, especially her mother, were forced to confront mental health head-on. They couldn’t deny it when it lived so clearly in their home. And instead of responding with shame or dismissal, her mother responded with encouragement—sometimes in ways that seemed small in the moment, but proved foundational over time.

When Jane was diagnosed with ADHD, she didn’t receive the message that something was “wrong” with her. She received curiosity. Support. Even pride.

“What a superpower,” her mom said.

Jane laughed recalling it—half embarrassed, half touched. But those words mattered. They reframed how she saw herself. Instead of viewing her mind as scattered or defective, she learned to see it as active, creative, alive. Thinking deeply wasn’t a flaw—it was part of who she was.

The weight of a mother’s voice showed up again and again in our conversation. Not as control, but as influence. Not as pressure, but as permission. Jane spoke about how her mom consistently uplifted her children—how that encouragement settled somewhere deep, becoming a quiet foundation they could return to when the world felt loud.

As children, we believe our parents almost blindly. Their words—positive or negative—don’t just pass through us. They become internal narratives. Jane understands now how powerful that is. How easily a single sentence can either shrink someone, or expand them.

We talked about how this dynamic extends beyond childhood—how encouragement shouldn’t stop once someone grows up. How often adults forget to speak life into one another, even though we still crave it. Jane admitted that this instinct—to see people not just as they are, but as who they could be—has shaped how she moves through relationships, friendships, even dating.

“I see people for who they are,” she said, “but also for who they could be.”

It’s both a strength and a lesson she’s learning to balance. She’s reached a point where she’s more focused on her own potential than carrying someone else’s. She speaks about her future self with excitement, not anxiety. Who she’s becoming feels like a return, not a reinvention.

That return—to the self you were before you learned to shrink—came up often. Jane reflected on how she was once artistic, expressive, unashamed to sing or dance or take up space. Over time, subtle messages taught her to quiet herself. To be less loud. Less messy. Less much.

No one meant harm. Most of it came from survival instincts passed down through generations. But the result was the same: a slow retreat from parts of herself that once felt natural.

“I didn’t forget who I was,” she said. “I just stopped holding onto it.”

Now, she’s reclaiming those pieces. Creativity. Movement. Presence. Not because they’re productive, but because they’re hers.

Toward the end of our conversation, we talked about identity—specifically what it means to exist as a multicultural person in a world that wants neat categories. Jane doesn’t spend much time thinking about her identity until someone else forces it into the conversation. She sees herself as herself first. The problem arises when others decide who she should be based on how she looks.

She’s been called “whitewashed.” Been told she’s not what people expected. Been placed into boxes she never asked for. And over time, that constant misperception has shaped who she chooses to keep close.

“I don’t want to be someone’s token friend,” she said simply.

She doesn’t want to be accepted in spite of who she is. She wants to be seen as who she is. That distinction matters. It’s the difference between belonging and being tolerated.

What struck me most about Jane wasn’t just her insight—it was her steadiness. Her ability to hold complexity without bitterness. To speak about family, mental health, culture, and identity without turning any of it into a performance. She doesn’t claim to have everything figured out. She’s just paying attention.

And maybe that’s the thread tying everything together: awareness. The kind that comes from growing up around unspoken truths. From listening closely. From learning that silence still teaches, and words still linger.

This conversation wasn’t heavy for the sake of being heavy. It was honest. It was gentle. It was real. It reminded me that when we slow down—when we create spaces that allow people to speak without fear of being misunderstood—stories emerge that feel familiar, even when they aren’t ours.

You can listen wherever you get your podcasts.

by RAFAEL TEJEDA SOSA