It’s impossible to look away from the crisis among young people.

Too many young people are taking their own lives. In our schools, our neighborhoods, our extended circles. Sons. Daughters. Friends of friends. The kind of loss that leaves a horrible, permanent echo in the lives of everyone who remains.

And beneath the grief sits a question:

Why is this happening?

There isn’t one reason.  But there are currents we can’t ignore.

Young people today are growing up in a world that is louder, faster, and more relentlessly comparative than any generation before them. With every scroll, they are confronted with curated lives, filtered beauty, success without context. It creates a quiet, corrosive belief: everyone else is okay… so what’s wrong with me?

We can’t underestimate the damage social media is doing to youth–and there’s research to show it.

Add to that the pressure to perform—academically, socially, even morally. The sense that one misstep can be permanent, public, and unforgivable. In this very public world, there is very little room to be messy, to fail, to simply be becoming. We had that luxury growing up. They do not.

And then there is loneliness. A profound, aching loneliness that can exist even in a crowd, even in a group chat buzzing with notifications. When connection is digitized, it’s not always deepened. Many young people don’t feel truly seen—not in the ways that matter. It becomes easy to keep the burdens they carry secret.

Some are carrying burdens they don’t have words for yet. Anxiety that hums constantly in the background. Depression that flattens everything. Trauma. Identity struggles. Fear about the future in a world that often feels unstable and unforgiving.

And perhaps most dangerously, many of them believe—truly believe—that their pain is a problem to be solved quietly, or hidden altogether. They don’t reach out for help.

So what can we do?

We can start by refusing to minimize what they’re feeling. Not everything is “a phase.” Not everything can be brushed off with reassurance or advice. Sometimes what’s needed most is presence—steady, nonjudgmental, and patient. Open lines of communication.

We can listen to youth more than we speak. Not to fix, but to understand. That distinction is critical.

We can create spaces—at home, in schools, in communities—where it is safe to say, “I’m not okay,” without fear of dismissal or consequence.

We can model imperfection. Let them see that adults struggle too, that life is not a straight line, that setbacks are survivable.

We can pay attention to the quiet ones. The ones who withdraw. The ones who seem “fine.” Especially them.

And we can talk openly about mental health—not as something rare or shameful, but as part of being human.

Most of all, we can remind them—again and again, in ways both big and small—that they matter. Not for what they achieve, not for how they appear, but simply because they are here.

Because sometimes, what stands between a young person and a terrible, irreversible decision is the feeling that someone sees them, hears them, and would miss them beyond words. We must make sure they know that, at the deepest level.

If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out—to a trusted person, a counselor, or a crisis line. You don’t have to carry it alone.

This is not a problem we solve once and for all.

But it is one we can meet—with attention, compassion, and the willingness to stay.

In another post, I’ll address how the mental health system is failing us.