Content Warning: This post discusses mental health challenges, including suicidal ideation and hospitalization. If you’re struggling, please know you’re not alone. Support resources are included at the end.
At Danalize, we talk a lot about financial aid, college access, and beating the odds.
But we don’t always talk about what happens after the acceptance letter or successful financial aid appeal.
This is the part of the first-gen experience that doesn’t make it onto scholarship essays. The part where surviving isn’t just academic—it’s personal.
There are so many narratives about how first-gen students overcome adversity, but not enough about what it costs us to do so. This is my story of what that cost looked like for me this year. And more importantly, what it means to survive it.
Being first-gen means carrying more than just ambition; it often means carrying silence, fear, and the pressure to make it “worth it” for everyone who came before you. It means smiling when you’re drowning, succeeding while doubting if you belong, and often navigating mental health challenges in environments that weren’t built with you in mind.
If you’re a first-gen student struggling right now, whether it be emotionally, academically, or spiritually, I want you to know this: your pain is not a weakness. Your story matters. Your survival is not small. And needing help does not mean you’ve failed; it means you’re human.
You don’t have to earn your place. You don’t have to have it all together. You don’t have to be okay all the time.
I’m still here.
And I’m rooting for you to be, too.
With love and adoration,
The Witching Hour Was Kind to Me
By Terrah Garner
Founder & CEO of Danalize | Junior at Barnard College, Columbia University
They say 3am is the witching hour.
What they don’t often mention is the stillness.
The silence.
The whisper of the wind.
The ticking of the clock as you glance at your phone and sigh, knowing tomorrow’s a workday and you’re still here to see it.
I turned 20 today.
It’s the quiet hour, where everything slows down, and I’m no longer pretending.
What am I not pretending?
I thought I’d be here.
If you had asked me four months ago—
before the hospital room,
before I was asked if I was safe,
before the world became so unbearably heavy,
before I realized rock bottom wasn’t dramatic—
it was boring, beige, and had no windows…
I would’ve smiled and lied.
Not because I believed it—
but because the alternative felt quieter.
And yet, I’m here.
I know, I’m still young.
But that doesn’t mean the weight hasn’t felt unbearable.
Especially at school.
A place that’s both a dream and a pressure cooker.
Where the buildings are historic and the expectations are relentless.
Where you’re told you’re exceptional, but you feel like an accident.
Like you’re just… lucky.
Luck: catching the train just in time.
Finding an open seat in a crowded lecture hall.
Passing for someone who has it together.
Luck is showing up.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s all my accomplishments are.
This year showed me who I am when there’s nowhere to hide.
I grieved.
I lost things I thought were solid.
I struggled to untangle the weight of a lie I didn’t see coming.
I buried myself in deadlines, only to realize I couldn’t outrun what I was feeling.
It got hard to breathe.
Hard to stay still.
Hard to keep going.
Hard to admit how much I was hurting.
Hard to walk into that emergency room.
Hard to be honest about what had happened.
Hard to imagine another year.
Another birthday.
Hard. But not impossible.
Hard to survive, yes—
But harder to believe survival was something that I was allowed to do.
That I was worthy of choosing to stay.
But I did.
Hard.
Hard.
Hard.
Hard to write this, knowing my last post was a year ago.
Hard to decide if I should share any of this at all.
Harder to still call it healing and not just surviving.
But easy to remember:
If I made it out, maybe someone else can too.
So this is for you—
If you’re scrolling in the quiet hours.
If you’re tired.
If you feel like you’re faking it.
If you’re hurting and still showing up anyway.
There is nothing wrong with you.
There is everything right about your strength.
You are not alone.
You are brave for being here.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to ask for help.
You are allowed to start again.
The truth is—
Your unexpected circumstances don’t define you.
Grades don’t define you.
Your worth was never up for debate.
You matter.
You are loved.
And you made it through a night you thought you wouldn’t.
If that’s not something to be proud of, I don’t know what is.
And maybe this is your reminder:
You’ve made it this far.
You can keep going.
The quiet hour doesn’t last forever—
But you do.
Resources for you: (U.S.-based)
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — Call or text 988
Crisis Text Line — Text HOME to 741741
The Steve Fund — Text STEVE to 741741 (for students of color)
JED Foundation — for campus-focused mental health resources, toolkits, and support for young adults
The Trevor Project– Mental health resources for LGBTQ+ identifying students
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