By Alex Vogel ’26

I am truly honored to have the opportunity to be here, to even just breathe this air in front of me. But I am even more blessed to be able to speak on a matter that is very near and dear to my heart. A matter that binds us all, a challenge that knows no borders, no class, no creed, no social hierarchy. A matter that is taking one life every eleven minutes. 

When nations wage war, it is one versus another. War is hell. War is publicly condemned because of its capability to steal human lives too soon. When nations wage war, there are protests, demonstrations against it, and pleas to make it end. The act of war itself is hell. Those in war can attest that being caught in the crossfire of a war…is hell, being in the frontlines of war…is hell, being on the sidelines of a war, witnessing untimely death…is hell. Battling against a war is hell. Yet in almost every national conflict, there is a group of people that come together to fight this hell. Soldiers in war murder the enemy.

This dreadful matter I speak of is one of self-murder. Suicide: the seemingly only answer when the struggles of the mind win the war.

I have hope that the silent battles of the mind will one day be welcomed and not discussed behind closed doors. I see a time when a chorus of empathy and understanding will ease the weight of depression, anxiety, and despair rather than being carried alone.

I have a hope that one day, people who fight behind closed doors would no longer feel ashamed and will instead stand tall in the light of acceptance, surrounded by people who say, “We see you, we hear you, we are with you.”

I have a hope that the stigma that suffocates the soul will crumble like ancient walls, giving way to a society where mental health is not a secret to be hidden, but a truth that is unanimously accepted. 

I have a hope that instead of demanding that peacefulness be sacrificed for work, workplaces would become shelters to the artillery that is mental hell. Shelters where everybody will feel appreciated and complete.

I have a hope that our hospitals will treat not only broken bones but broken spirits, that our leaders will legislate not only for the economy but for the emotional well-being of the supposedly free people.

And so I say, let us rise from the commentary and judgement of others. Let us rise up with the courage to speak openly, for there is no solution in silence. Let us rise up and embrace each other, for there is no shame in struggle. Let us rise up and create a world where mental health is no longer a war that one must fight alone. Let us rise up and fight this war that is more lethal than total war. Let us rise up until every soul knows the joy of being cared for and looked out for. Let us lead in love and acceptance, not judgement and belittlement. Let us rise until the day this war against the mind is put to a permanent ceasefire, where society is the victor, and suicide is the defeated. Only then we may sit down in contentment.

That is my hope…it is your duty to carry this hope with you until all of us do, so that this no longer remains just my hope, but all of the souls of this beautiful world we can make. Turn this hope into a reality, so that when the war of society and mental health is discussed in future history classrooms, the teachers and students can say with a smile–a real smile–that “society won”.

By Louisa Strong ’26

We were crouched in the grass, kept neatly trimmed by her mother, rotting twigs and strange flowers littering our feet. Lilies, ferns, and unruly shrubs threatened the border of this upkept backyard, in constant rebellion to my aunt’s pruning. Our laughter, reaching to the blue above, tangled with that of the gulls on their way to the nearby sea. With the sun on our backs and the afternoon ahead of us, Audrey and I prepared to build. It’s been a while, but I still know the ritual well. The perfect fairy house is constructed by two essentials: the right materials and the right mindset, the right mindset being believing in the existence of fairies. I never struggled with the first part, but since I had stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny at five, at eight, fairies didn’t seem very realistic to me either. But if Audrey believed in them, that was enough to at least make me play along.

My cousin and I would run too fast and too far down the road in search of the ideal fairy house materials. So determined in our adventure, we hardly noticed the pavement callusing our feet or the inevitable thorns tearing at our legs while we searched for the most fantastical ornaments nature could provide. Audrey and I spent many days like this and by the end of these summers, I wore every scratch and bruise as a trophy of the summer now gone. But right now it was still summer and there was still a fairy house waiting to be made. 

As we began to construct, the disproportions of the house started worrying me. If Audrey saw how absurd it was that the chairs were twice as big as their acorn table, would she then see the absurdity of the whole bit? I was sure that if Audrey realized that fairies couldn’t exist, our quiet sanctuary of flowers and forest would be gone. After a minute, I asked her if she was sure that all of the makeshift furniture would work for the fairies, and she assured me that because they were magical, all of the furniture would be just fine. Audrey and I continued on until we could barely see our creation by the dimming skylight. She told me that the fairies were going to love their new home and that we’d better get inside so they could move in in peace. 

Her imagination far outstretched my own; while I wished that there was magic in the world, Audrey already believed it was there. Building fairy houses on those hot summer days, salty breeze knotting our hair and strawberry lemonade on our tongues, I never once saw a fairy but I shared in Audrey’s belief of magic. Because there, in those moments, I could feel it. I held on tight to Audrey’s imagination, hoping that if I pretended enough, we would stay children forever. 

Summers passed quickly and soon Audrey and I were eleven and twelve. The summer’s dull fog clung to our clothes and gathered on our skin. Rain clouds lingered in the corners of the sky. Having exhausted water balloons and spilling secrets, we sat on her front steps throwing pebbles on to her driveway. With each throw, the contrast from this summer to the ones still sharp in my memory seemed to grow. The past summers spent unafraid and imperfect had been weighing on me, taunting me with the fact that I could not go back. It was then that Audrey suggested we build a fairy house. All of my worrying had been for nothing; summer was still here and Audrey still saw the magic in it. 

We set out in our familiar routine, looking for the best flowers and most creative decor for the fairies. It was just like it had always been or at least I tried to make myself think that. In truth, it didn’t feel like magic. It felt like forcing a sequel to something that could have wrapped up beautifully a long time ago. This feeling that fairy houses seemed so ingenuine now forced me into a confession. 

“You know I never believed in fairies, right?” I asked her. “I just pretended for your sake”. For a moment I didn’t know what she was thinking. Our sweet summer seemed to rot in front of my eyes. Then she laughed.

“That’s funny,” she said, “because I was always pretending for your sake”. With that, we left our flowers and twigs scattered on the tar and returned home.

And, somehow, it was still summer.

By Alex Hounsell

Now lets do a countdown,

And let us be still.

For the earth is always moving, and yet is never set and fixed.

And the grass has no goals, except to only keep growing,

And the wind has no destination, even though it is always running.

Let’s do what the earth does, if just for a second.

If the concrete jungles momentarily stopped their growing,

If the fires that are the world stop glowing,

 Maybe only then can we truly see,

see what lives have come to be.

And yes, the clocks won’t stop moving,

 and the sun won’t stop revolving, 

but perhaps instead eye the bearing of time,

 us not always evolving.

For I don’t mean death, 

There is no call for a hearse,

No lost souls,

No Blackened hearts,

No funeral flowers,

No skulls.

Perhaps laced in the unusual

 is only when united souls can see,

The fabric of time shifting, 

And the tide is whisked back to the depths of the sea.

And maybe life isn’t found in the textbooks,

And maybe life isn’t found on a life-threatening journey,

But the moments of peace,

But the moments of zen glee,

But instead as united as could be,

Where the only thing you can hear is the earth and your heart,

Where the only thing you can feel is the understanding of others,

Where the only thing you can remember is the carelessness once in your head, and the people currently with you, 

but not always journeys ahead.

Now the countdown is done, 

and I’ll be as still as still can go.