Why I Share My Story
By Haidah
This article is part of a series by The Tapestry Project, commissioned by IMH to share personal narratives from individuals in recovery. The Tapestry Project SG is a registered charity that champions mental health education and empowerment through person-first stories and narrative programmes.
Where does a story begin? Within the mental health space, I usually describe myself as a person in recovery - a peer. When I share my story, I often start with my first hospitalisation after an acute manic episode of psychosis at the age of 15. That episode was the first time my mind led me down a path so vivid and consuming that I couldn't tell if I had left reality behind.
Looking back, being diagnosed with schizophrenia marked a significant point in my life, for sure. But it wasn't exactly the start of my struggles with mental health. These struggles trace back to earlier moments. Like in the quiet ache of watching someone I loved hurt themselves. Or when I was seeing a psychologist in school every day, trying to manage what felt like a self-sabotaging mind. I still wanted to learn, but being in school felt hollow. As if there was nothing left in me, and nothing left I could give back. So I dropped out; it felt like the only decision I still had control over.
Amidst all the chaos - every panic attack, every tear shed in the hallways - one thing stayed consistent. One line I kept hearing sometimes whispered, sometimes spoken outright: "She's just doing it for attention."
At first, those words stung. How could they not? In those moments when panic attacks would leave me breathless and terrified, it was painful to think that my struggles were dismissed as mere cries for attention. It made me wonder: What if I was? What if, in those moments, I was just trying to be seen and heard?
I've come to realise that from our earliest moments, we all seek attention. What we miss when dismissing someone as "attention-seeking" is the deeper need beneath the surface. When I babysit now, I see it in the children I watch over - this raw, unfiltered need for attention. They'll act out, make something small into a big deal, all because they're simply trying to express a need. They're asking for someone to notice them, to listen and to care.
And isn't that what all of us want?
In many ways, my mental health journey has been about this very thing: the desire to be heard. And that's why I share my story.
After my condition stabilised, I landed my first job in peer support in the very hospital where I'd once been a patient myself, now working alongside others who had lived through similar experiences. Where most jobs might see my lived experience with schizophrenia as a liability, here, it was seen as an asset. And that for me, felt like a breakthrough.
As a fresh outpatient, having dropped out of school, I was now in a space where there was value in being open about my condition, and I was even able to earn an income from it. It was a boost, a confidence lift. But that feeling didn't last long.
When I began to share this part of my life with others, instead of encouragement, I was often met with pity and concern, half-hearted reassurances that stifled the excitement I had for my work. It was as if they could only see me for my mental health condition, flattening everything I was trying to say into just 'mental illness', reducing my identity to that single aspect of my life.
Those moments taught me that the struggle against stigma is not just external; stigma can also create internal conflicts that challenge and make even the strongest sense of self-worth falter.
The feeling of pride that came with being open about my journey was replaced with guilt, shame, and an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. Guilt - because I wondered if my condition was somehow my fault. Shame - because it felt as if who I was got swallowed by the condition I had. Embarrassment - because no matter how much I tried to explain, I could never quite convey the reality of living with schizophrenia in a way that really made sense to others.
But sharing remained my way of finding meaning in what I had been through. Although at times I felt more exposed than understood, it always came down to one thing: it mattered to me. Each time I told my story, I was reclaiming a part of it, and that, to me, made all the difference.
I couldn't make everyone understand. Over time, I also stopped feeling the need to defend or explain myself anymore - because the people who mattered to me already understood. Still, I wanted to create something for the kind of stories that often get left out - the ones that aren't easy to tell but still deserve to be heard.
This is where "Hear Our Side" began to take shape - an online platform where I work closely with people to shape their mental health stories into something they feel proud to share. It's built on honesty and understanding, because our realities are too easily misunderstood.
Hear Our Side is my way of making sense of what I've been through. By sharing my story, and by giving others a space to share theirs, I hope we can build a connected community - one where both sides play a part: the side that speaks and the side that listens.
Haidah describes herself as someone living with complexity while also finding peace in the everyday. She loves baking with the kids in her family and playing badminton. Currently, she is studying youth development alongside an interest in gerontology as a way to build Hear Our Side into a space for stories to connect across generations and backgrounds.
