General

November 20, 2025 — This year, 2025, has felt heavy. At times, the moments of resilience, hope, and community have been overshadowed by a campaign of anti-trans legislation and toxic rhetoric. It’s a pervasive storm of violence that has led to measurable loss — from the erosion of access to life-saving gender-affirming care, to the many lives taken too soon this year. Bearing witness to this trauma has intensified the mental health crisis within the trans community to a breaking point. Today, we observe Transgender Day of Remembrance, a time to mourn the lives lost to anti-trans violence. The truth of this year’s loss, captured in Advocates For Trans Equality’s 2025 Remembrance Report, is staggering. There have been 58 known trans people who have passed away since last November. Of that number, 27 were lost to acts of violence, and 21 were lost to suicide. These statistics represent a devastating toll that underscores the profound distress caused by systemic transphobia and isolation. We know that these numbers are tragically incomplete, as violence, especially against trans women of color, is vastly underreported. Yet, the data we do have is clear: 63% of the known violent deaths were Black trans women, a brutal reminder that race and gender identity intersect to create disproportionate risk. And 61% of all those lost to suicide were trans youth ages 15-24, a reminder of the essential need to support young people in their moments of vulnerability. Each person lost represents a future denied. This loss is not abstract; it is felt deeply and collectively throughout our community. To every transgender person carrying the weight of this loss, I want to acknowledge the monumental, revolutionary strength it takes to keep showing up. To stare down a world that demands your conformity and still make the bravest decision one could make — to choose yourself — is an act of profound courage. To our allies, thank you for showing up with us today. We are standing together in this moment, turning our grief into a powerful movement for change, dignity, and life. This crisis demands action beyond solidarity. Allies must recognize the urgency of this moment and step forward to actively protect the trans community. Thank you for supporting the trans people in your life and coming on this journey with us. Whatever feelings this day evokes, remember you do not have to carry them alone. Active Minds welcomes you to bring yourself and your grief to experience them in community. We are here for you. At Active Minds, you are more than just welcome. You are seen. You belong. You are supported. You are safe. Need Extra Support Today? On difficult days like today, resources are available from those who understand. If you are experiencing a moment of crisis, please reach out to these vital lines for peer and mental health support: Call Blackline at 1-800-604-5841 Call TransLifeline at (877) 565-8860 Call Trevor Project at 866-488-7386 or Text START to 678-678

November 10, 2025 — At Active Minds, we believe in the power of young leaders to transform the mental health landscape. Our Youth Spotlight series is dedicated to celebrating exceptional young people who are founders, advocates, and changemakers, using their passion and purpose to create real impact in their communities and beyond. Advocacy and Policy Youth Spotlight: Diya Mankotia   We are incredibly proud to shine a light on this month’s featured leader: Diya Mankotia, a 17-year-old senior based in Austin, Texas. 

November 7, 2025 — As a young woman of color, I’ve learned that culture isn’t just about remembering where we come from; it’s about keeping those memories alive through movement, creativity, and community. My connection to my heritage has always been strongest when I’m dancing or creating art with my hands. For me, both Mexican folklórico dancing and the Ojo de Dios, or “Eye of God,” are expressions of resilience, faith, and identity. When I first started dancing in middle school, it was the first time I truly felt something. I was never athletic or into sports, and ballet wasn’t something I could afford or felt drawn to. But when I discovered ballet folklórico, something clicked. The colorful skirts, the rhythmic steps, the music that echoed through each performance… they all carried stories that words alone could never tell. It felt like it was made for me because it came from my background. Each dance was like learning about myself, a form of finding myself within movement, color, and community. Although folklórico dancing is often associated with Mexican culture, it has deep Indigenous roots that connect traditions across the Southwest. In my home state, it’s more than performance — it’s storytelling. It’s a living archive of our community’s survival, celebration, and adaptation. And for me, it has become a form of mental health care, a way to express emotions I was never taught to name. Each dance is a history lesson in motion. The way we move our feet, the way the ribbons or scarves flow, even the designs of our clothing, they all have meaning. Through dancing, I’ve learned patience, discipline, and pride in who I am. I’ve also learned that joy is a form of resistance. For Native and Indigenous people, simply existing in our traditions — smiling, dancing, singing — is an act of defiance against centuries that tried to silence us. The Ojo de Dios holds a similar kind of power. I grew up seeing them everywhere, hanging on doors, walls, and altars in the homes of my tías, tíos, and family friends, without ever really knowing what they meant. Traditionally made by the Huichol and Tepehuán people of Mexico, the Ojo de Dios represents the four elements and the ability to see and understand what is unseen. In my community, creating one is a small act of love and intention. Each layer of yarn represents a loved one, the outer layer is often a male figure, maybe a cousin who loves tomatoes, symbolized by red for his strength and the joy he brings to your life. The next layer might be blue, for my grandmother’s eyes and her kindness, or green, for the growth we hope to nurture within ourselves and our community. As the threads cross, they form a pattern that feels sacred, a woven reflection of connection, gratitude, and balance. Making an Ojo de Dios is also an act of mindfulness. Every turn of the yarn feels like a prayer, a grounding in the present. In my culture, we don’t often talk about emotions or go to counseling. Healing isn’t spoken; it’s lived. It happens through tradition, through family, through showing up for one another even when words fail. When I create or dance, silence becomes expression. I don’t need to explain what I feel, it’s already there in the rhythm, in the colors, in the movement. That is my form of counseling. And while I believe our communities deserve access to real mental health support in the future, I also believe we need to meet people where they are. For many of us, healing happens in these spaces, through art, movement, and shared culture, because that’s where we feel seen, comfortable, and whole. To me, mental health and culture aren’t separate — they sustain each other. The Ojo de Dios teaches patience; dancing teaches courage. Both remind me that wellness comes from remembering who you are. This Native American Heritage Month, I hope others find strength in their own cultural roots — whether through art, language, music, or movement. Because when we honor where we come from, we begin to heal where we are.

October 21, 2025 — Caregiving is a weighted word — especially for Gen-Z, now at the forefront of family care. For me, it brings up many feelings, like frustration and stress. A caregiver supports a loved one through physical help, emotional care, or financial aid. The role is deeply personal. For some, it's a cultural expectation, making it a big part of who they are. For others, it's an unavoidable duty, something that they didn’t have much say in.  Caring.com reported that about 72% of Gen-Z plan to provide some type of care for their parents. And for those who are already providing care, this can be not only a physically and economically exhausting job, but also a mentally taxing one. Young adults already manage school, work, and social life; caregiving is one more responsibility piled on their plates. This all can cause social isolation, academic burnout, and professional struggles.   Gen-Z is quickly becoming the new face of family caregiving, often influenced by cultural or familial responsibility. I invited two fellow Gen-Z caregivers, Jorge Alvarez (a full-time professional) and Carolyn Dao (a full-time student), to share their unique experiences with me through a series of Q&As. Learn more about them below!  What does providing caregiving for your family mean to you, and what does it look like? Jorge: For me, caregiving isn’t just about stepping into a role you didn’t expect, but doing so, surely, out of love, but often out of necessity. I became a caregiver for my mom in less than 24 hours, without much preparation, after she had a major surgery. I supported her with everything from bathing and feeding her to coordinating appointments; all while adjusting to adulthood and living on my own for the first time. It was overwhelming, but it taught me how important it is to have plans for caregiving or at least know where to find resources and learn more about what support systems exist for us.  How has your view on caregiving evolved throughout your experiences with it? Carolyn: Before I started taking care of my grandparents, I thought that mainly older adults did it as a full-time job. But growing up, my dad, aunts, and uncles would all pitch in to assist my grandparents. I thought that I could be a kid for a little longer. However, I realized that being a caregiver can start at any age. Caregiving allowed me to have an early look at how adults manage to balance all sorts of things, and taught me how to balance out caregiving, school, and mental health.   Research has shown that caregiving for a family member can bring up a lot of complex emotions. What feelings have come up for you in your caregiving journey?  Jorge: I’ve felt love and gratitude, but also resentment, guilt, exhaustion, and fear. There were moments when I felt like I had to put my life on pause, and that was hard to accept. I constantly questioned if I was doing enough or doing it “right.” I felt guilty and anxious when I couldn’t help. It’s a deeply human experience that pushes you to confront your limits while trying to protect someone else’s dignity, while prioritizing your own mental health and well-being. What support has been helpful in processing your feelings and taking care of your mental health throughout your experiences with caregiving? Are there any resources that you think are missing to better support caregivers? Carolyn: Having open conversations with those I trust helped me carry the weight on my shoulders. They allowed me to speak my mind while understanding the situation I was in. While there are support systems out there for adult caregivers, there are not many for Gen-Z ones, as they are just as capable and experience the [same] emotions.  Caregiving is a difficult, yet often unrecognized, job that impacts the mental health of young adults. Active Minds recognizes that caregiving duties significantly impact the mental health of young adults. That’s why we encourage you to join us for our upcoming caregiving workshop — either to learn about caregiving or share your own challenges and experiences as a caregiver.  Let’s work together to identify and shape resource ideas for Gen-Z caregivers like you and me. Register today to join us for a workshop on caregiving on Thursday, November 13th at 7:00 PM ET!

October 14, 2025 — This Hispanic Heritage Month, I’m thinking about the state of mental health in our community. I reflect on my early years and the challenges I faced navigating expectations and culture in my Hispanic family. Growing up, I experienced personal challenges because within our culture, mental health was frequently disregarded and undertreated. This reality meant that to avoid the judgment and misunderstanding, I had to learn to deal with my mental health problems in private. And I know this is a reality that many people who come of age in Hispanic households can relate to. I felt really confined as a young girl because I didn't feel like I could tell my family about my mental health struggles. I worried that if I told them I was depressed, they wouldn't understand and would try to convince me that I wasn't ill. And when I did the brave thing and spoke up about my mental health, the fears I had were validated. When I finally opened up, my mother dismissed my feelings. She told me that people in our religion and culture don't get depressed. I was told that it was a sin to have negative feelings about myself because I was God’s creation and that it wasn’t right to criticize his work. It was devastating to hear in such a vulnerable moment. Fortunately, when I decided to tell my father about what I was feeling, he understood. Having faced similar emotional roadblocks with his own mother, he knew what I was going through. He tried his best to console me and urged me to seek help, whether it was through school counseling or therapy. My father's support became a crucial source of comfort, but it was still a long road. It took me a very long time to fully accept my mental condition and be honest with myself. I was sick of feeling alone, and I wanted to talk to someone other than my friends about how I was feeling. This difficulty I had in sharing what I was going through with my family, exacerbated by the fear of rejection, highlights a major barrier to mental health support that is tragically common across many underserved communities. I want to share my story to highlight how important it is to feel safe being open about mental health challenges, particularly within spaces where it hasn’t always been encouraged. Throughout my upbringing in a Hispanic household, I witnessed firsthand how stigma, cultural norms, or the expectation that we need to "be strong" may lead mental health to be disregarded or ignored. This collective silence is a public health crisis that demands immediate attention. You never really know what someone might be going through, and the serious mental health challenges they might be navigating in silence. And no one deserves to go through their mental health journey alone. We have to overcome these harmful biases and the antiquated norms that keep so many of us silent. By actively challenging this stigma and making discussions about mental health more commonplace, we can create a supportive and empathetic society where people can open up about their difficulties without feeling ashamed. The key takeaway from my journey is that seeking help is an act of strength, not shame. We must do what my father did: actively break the cycle and choose a path different from the one we grew up with. Everyone deserves to be met with acceptance and compassion, rather than judgment, if we are to see real progress for both the present and future generations.

October 11, 2025 — “Haha, isn’t that weird? I would never kiss a girl!” my middle school friend exclaimed after telling me about her friend who came out as lesbian. Silence was my answer as I thought to myself, “Kissing another girl? Hm... I wouldn't mind that actually.” Going to a private Christian school and being conditioned into thinking that same-sex relationships were “morally offensive”, I held these thoughts inside and never acted on them. My sheltered upbringing was shattered once I later met “real-life lesbians”. Talking with them broadened my perspective and opened a new path in my journey of self-discovery. Your First "Aha!" Moment Doesn’t Need to be Your Final Answer I began exploring my sexuality and proclaiming to my coworkers, "I am a lesbian!” Then I got a boyfriend and said, “Well... I’m just bisexual.” A few months later, “We broke up, and I am definitely a lesbian.” “So, you know how I said I was lesbian? Well, actually..." The cycle continued and the shame built. Why don’t I have figured out? (because surely a 16-year old would have their identity fully realized by then… right?). To me and my peers, “coming out” = “having it figured out” and I was nowhere close to meeting that social expectation; a shackling mentality. Lesson #1: An initial declaration of identity is a point on a map, not the final destination. Give yourself — and others — the grace to revise as you continue on the journey of finding yourself. The willingness to change your mind is a sign of growth and honest introspection, not failure. Authentic Self-Expression Precedes Self-Acceptance I shoved my shame deep within me, hoping to cover the cracks and bury it beyond where the light could shine. Despite that internal struggle, I began to act authentically. I cut my hair short and embraced more masculine clothes. I attended pride events and consumed LGBTQ+ media (seeing trans actors in the TV show Pose was transformative).  As I began meeting new people, watching compelling stories on TV, and learning new ways to articulate my experience, the light broke through and I had a revelation.While I was acting with self-acceptance, I had not internalized it. I realized I didn't even accept myself, period. Deep inside, I was a wounded child whose sense of self was bound by many layers of shame. I shed the desperate need to label and hesitantly embraced a new mantra: I love who I love, and I am who I am. Lesson #2: True self-acceptance is an internal job. The most immediate thing you can do to start the process is to act authentically — even if you haven't named or rationalized why you're doing it. By stepping into those small acts of authentic expression (like the clothes and haircut), you create evidence for your mind that a different, truer self is possible. Start by doing what feels right, and the understanding of yourself will eventually catch up. Embrace the Evolution, Not the Conclusion Time passed, and I began college and therapy. My identity felt unstable, and a new crack appeared: my body felt foreign. I had to ask myself big questions. Who was I outside of the hyperfeminity I was conditioned into? Where did the “butch queer woman” end and the “I’m just a little guy” begin? I entertained the idea of trans-masculinity and adorned He/Him pronouns for the first time. It felt... liberating. I began to wear He/Him pins around campus, I changed my pronouns on my social media accounts, and I eventually started taking testosterone. Outside of intimate conversations I had with loved ones, I did not feel led to make any public declarations of my gender identity. This time, I approached coming out differently from my past experiences of the back-and-forth proclamations. For those that asked, I shared and to those that knew, knew. It was through this that I came to a critical realization: understanding yourself is a continuous practice. Those many layers and cracks I shamed myself for became fractals for the light to shine through. I embraced their hues and released the pressure to have myself "figured out". Through this, my inner child was freed to authentically be himself and the shackles that bound me fell to my feet. Lesson #3: Coming out is an ongoing process. Release the pressure to have yourself "figured out." Instead, find joy and strength in the ambiguity. Embrace the profound beauty of this continuous, often messy, journey of self-discovery. I am a gender nonconforming queer being and I am proud of who I am. Of course I still struggle with my self-image and, fortunately, I am still figuring myself out. But as I take this time to recognize National Coming Out Day, I celebrate my journey and hope today you’re able to embrace yours too.

October 2, 2025 — At the beginning of the Fall 2025 semester, uncertainty and fear left me in a state of worry. This fear was not just for my own well-being, but also for that of my family. The thought of being taken away to my birthplace — a place I don't know, where I couldn’t identify a single street or landmark — really worried me. As a college senior, my education and future hung in the balance. Doubt for the future invaded me; I feared I wouldn't be able to finish and earn my bachelor's degree. But despite my worries, I kept my head held high. My anchor was my faith in God. I truly believed He would guide my family and me through each day. My final semester was unlike any other. News of police actions and families being taken into immigration custody made it hard to leave the dorm for classes, my internship, or even to enjoy a moment of peace. To avoid putting my family in danger, we didn’t visit each other. It wasn’t worth the risk. I tried to take care of myself during this time, but it was so hard with the fear of what was happening right outside my door. I was trying to stay aware of the immigration crackdowns to keep my family safe, but it got to the point where the terrible things I was seeing were affecting my mental well-being. That’s when I knew I had to find a different way to cope with all the stress. I want to share how I learned to take care of myself, even when everything feels overwhelming. Stop Doomscrolling I was using social media to stay updated with ongoing news, which helps keep me and my family safe. But it got to the point where it was too much negativity, and it started to affect my mental health. Something that helped my mental state was to cut back my time on social media. It took someone close to me reminding me that the things I kept seeing were keeping me from living my daily life in peace. I had to set a goal to reduce what I saw online. I understand that we use social media to stay aware of breaking news for our security and the security of our loved ones. However, caring for one’s mental state is especially important for one's well-being. Even if you can’t unplug completely, you can start by setting a daily time limit on the social media apps that cause you the most stress. Find Peace Through Journaling With everything I was experiencing, I decided to take on a new hobby to help me process and relax— junk journaling. For me, junk journaling was a creative way to use old papers and everyday things to journal about my day-to-day life. It was a routine that gave me an escape from all the scary news. Doing so kept me away from all that was going on with immigration and the deportations of families. It gave my mind some peace and a place to evolve my creativity. Taking a break from it all improved my quality of life. It was great to put my energy into something new, productive, and fun. Try picking up a new hobby to find your peace today — like drawing, crafting, or meditation. Give it a try for 15 minutes. Find Gratitude for the Present Life lately has reminded me that there are things out of my control that I cannot change. I’ve learned to be okay with letting go and focusing on the present. You have to look at the good things: the people in your life, like family, friends, and mentors. The little things truly matter. Even with the police nearby, I still managed to get to my internship. I gave myself space to feel my emotions and trust that everything would be okay, with God's will. With the support of my community and family, it wasn't easy, but I made it through. Your circumstances might be outside of your control, but how you navigate them is up to you. Right now, take a deep breath and remind yourself of three good things you have in your life that you can be grateful for. My mentor once told me everybody has their own story. I know my story because I’ve lived it. I use my voice, and ultimately, that is my greatest power. And despite all the uncertainty and risk, nobody can take that away from me. So remember, you all have a voice, so use it wisely. And do not let anybody try to take that away from you, because they can’t. If you’re seeing the impact of the current climate and want to take action, I want you to know that there are ways to support the immigrant community. If you want to support, consider organizations working in your local community. There are many ways to help — donate and share information with your classmates, and find ways to show up for those in your life who are affected. It can even be as simple as checking in on your friends and neighbors and asking how you can support them.

September 26, 2025 — Content Warning: This piece contains mentions of suicide. Mental health advocacy isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. My journey began long before I found Active Minds, back when I was seven years old and lost my babysitter to suicide. That moment made me a suicide survivor before I could even understand the weight of what had happened. As I grew older, I not only understood the gravity of suicidal ideation, but also experienced it myself. Growing up queer and neurodivergent in a conservative household shaped by Mexican and Middle Eastern traditions, I faced mental illness in an environment where silence and stigma often replaced the support I needed. Being the eldest sibling also came with its own responsibilities. I wanted better for my younger sisters: more understanding, more resources, and more compassion than I had. Keeping them at the forefront of my priorities, I began advocating for mental health support at home. That commitment to making a safer environment for my family planted the seed for a wider mission to cultivate inclusive spaces of care wherever I went. That seed found ground when I joined UCLA’s Active Minds chapter. For the first time, I had the infrastructure to take what had always been personal and make it collective. Active Minds gave me more than a platform — it gave me a community. My story no longer felt like a burden. Instead, it became a bridge, connecting me to others who needed to hear, “You matter here.” As Advocacy Director in my chapter and a pioneer in other mental health spaces on campus, I launched projects that spoke to students who are often overlooked. I organized a Neurodivergent Resource Hub and Awareness Week, hosted queer movie nights, created campus-wide surveys on access to mental health resources, and co-led annual conferences that explored how mental health intersects with culture, art, and basic needs. I also worked alongside Residential Life, external partners, and other student organizations to shift how our campus viewed mental health, especially for minority students. Each project reminded me that stories like mine — shaped by resilience, difference, and survival — are not only valid but essential to creating change. When I stepped into the role of Executive Director, my purpose in Active Minds deepened. Suddenly, I was overseeing all of our chapter’s committees: education, workshops, advocacy, outreach, marketing, radio, membership, finance, corporate relations, logistics, and interns. It was overwhelming at times, but it also showed me just how much impact we could have when we worked together. At the heart of it all was the same mission: cultivating safe, inclusive spaces where every student feels seen and supported. Our chapter intentionally opens its doors to everyone, whether they are queer, students of color, neurodivergent, or anyone who has ever felt like they were carrying their story alone. So why am I staying involved? Because I know the difference it makes. Active Minds gave me the structure to turn my lived experience into meaningful action, and I want others to have that same opportunity. I’ve seen the relief in students’ eyes when they realize they are not alone. I’ve seen them share their stories for the first time, find support, and begin to believe that change is possible. Those moments remind me why this work matters. Advocacy isn’t always easy. It means challenging the perpetuating stigma that lingers in families, communities, and institutions. It means demanding policies and practices that prioritize mental health. But every step forward — every event, every conversation, every new initiative — is proof that we can build something better than the silence many of us grew up with. I stay with Active Minds because my journey has never been just my own. It belongs to the communities I serve: my siblings, my peers, queer students, students of color, first-generation students, and neurodivergent students who deserve to thrive in spaces where mental health is valued, not hidden. Continuing this work means carrying forward the lessons of my past while helping to create a safer present for others. My story may have started in silence and grief, but through Active Minds, it has become one of connection, advocacy, and hope. And that’s why I’ll keep going.

September 24, 2025 — Content Warning: This piece contains mentions of suicide. As a former Division 1 beach volleyball player, I lived the intense pressure of student-athlete life. But the most defining moments came off the court — losing both my dad and my therapist to suicide. Those personal tragedies became the catalyst for my mission: to break the stigma around mental health and advocate for real change. I founded a group called Breaking Barriers in college, creating space for athletes to talk openly about injury, anxiety, grief, and suicide; topics too often ignored in sports. Now, as a Marriage and Family Therapy graduate student at Pepperdine and a professional in the mental health space, I’m committed to transforming pain into purpose and advocating for systems that genuinely support mental health. We don’t talk enough about how messy mental illness can be. Growing up, I learned the mental health narratives we're exposed to are missing the messiest parts. We only seem to want to talk about mental health when it's easy or inspirational. Online, terms like “trauma” and “boundaries” are thrown around without context. But real healing requires more than that; it demands uncomfortable, honest conversations. I first heard the word “suicide” at six when my dad, who was bipolar, died. For the longest time, it was never talked about. Years later, I learned my therapist had died by suicide while sitting in a high school class. I stayed silent, finishing the lecture like it was any other day. In both my Moroccan and Filipino communities, as well as within sports culture, silence was a sign of strength. I had to unlearn that and find a way to tell my story. Someone dies by suicide every 40 seconds. It’s the second leading cause of death for people under 34. Yet we often only address mental health when it's light, trendy, or palatable. In reality, respecting mental health means creating space to speak, to grieve, and to heal; even when it's hard and uncomfortable. In college, I saw how inaccessible mental health care was for athletes. Free campus resources were overbooked or didn’t fit our schedules. Many feared backlash from coaches for seeking help. I ran an anonymous survey to push for a sports psychologist: 70% of athletes felt neglected, and 83% didn’t trust coaches or staff with their mental health. The data was ignored — until it wasn’t. Months later, a psychologist was hired. Advocacy works. But institutional systems change slowly, and students encounter roadblocks. I started an organization on my campus, Breaking Barriers, where I facilitated weekly discussions on mental health topics relevant to our experiences as student athletes. This showed me the power of community in creating change by being vulnerable about our experiences. Mental health support must be unconditional; it’s about showing up for each other and creating spaces where everyone feels seen, heard, and supported. We need more unconditional empathy, not to drain ourselves, but to create a safe space for those who need it, even if they’re the ones who always seem to be smiling. Leaning on others is crucial, and if someone doesn’t support you, they’re not your people. In college, I made it my mission to be the friend and teammate I didn’t always have. I was determined to advocate, listen, and be a reliable person to turn to. Real friends have uncomfortable conversations, check in, and truly listen. Today, as a graduate student and professional in the mental health space, I lean into this value of community care in ALL areas of my life. Mental health resources must prioritize the whole person. Our brains, emotional health, and identities must be protected. Sports will end one day. School will end one day. But we will always live inside our own minds. That space should be treated as the priority it is. I’m not a product of my pain, but of my persistence. My story doesn’t define me — how I rebuild does. Advocacy starts locally, by calling out what’s broken and building what’s missing. Together, we can create systems where no one has to suffer in silence. Let’s stop talking about mental health and start building a world that actually supports it.

September 8, 2025 — On September 8th, known nationally as 988 Day, students and communities across the country are invited to reflect on the importance of mental health and the role of crisis support services in saving lives. The 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline is a transformative step forward: a simple, three-digit number that provides immediate, 24/7 access to trained counselors for anyone in emotional distress or mental health crisis. It is free, confidential, and accessible to everyone, especially youth and students who are increasingly vulnerable to mental health challenges. The pressures facing students today are more intense than ever. Academic demands, social isolation, and a rapidly changing world have contributed to a growing mental health crisis among young people. According to national data, rates of depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation among students continue to rise. The availability of 988 is an essential tool, but awareness is just the beginning. We must also demand broader cultural and systemic shifts in how mental health is discussed, addressed, and supported, especially in educational settings. Behind 988 lies a powerful movement to reimagine our country’s mental health care system. But for it to work, we need more than a number; we need policy change. Federal and state funding must be increased to support the infrastructure behind 988, including hiring and training culturally competent responders, improving coordination with local health services, and ensuring equitable access in all communities. Without these investments, 988 risks becoming a symbolic gesture rather than a functional safety net. Students play a critical role in this conversation by using their voices to advocate for mental health policies at both the campus and legislative levels. One impactful way for students to get involved in mental health advocacy is through Active Minds, the largest nonprofit in the United States mobilizing youth and young adults to transform mental health norms across society. Here’s what you can do today: Save 988 in your contacts. You never know when you or a friend might need it. Follow Active Minds on Instagram or TikTok for relatable content, mental health tips, and how to get involved. Start or join a chapter at your school to make real change. These chapters provide safe spaces for dialogue, offer resources for those in need, and offer opportunities to take action on the issues that affect us most. Visit our website to locate one on your campus or learn how to start one yourself. Speak up for policy. Join campaigns that advocate for mental health funding and systems that actually care. Share the message. Post about 988 Day and let your community know there’s always help available. 988 Day is a call to action. It’s a reminder that every student deserves access to mental health support, that reaching out for help is a sign of strength, and that meaningful change begins with awareness, advocacy, and community. This September 8th, let’s commit to building communities where no one struggles alone and where help is always just a phone call away.