Today is World Mental Health Day — a reminder that behind every smile, every success, every “I’m fine,” there is a mind that has fought battles we may never see.

Recently, we met Sara Fares — a designer, artist, and storyteller whose life has been shaped by faith, creativity, and resilience. Sara speaks with rare honesty about anxiety, panic, and the quiet process of rebuilding yourself from within.

Her words remind us that healing isn’t about perfection — and it is never fast. It is about learning to sit with your mind instead of running from it, and seeing that the battle we fight is not against the world, but within ourselves.

Read her monologue.

I decided to share my story because if it helps even one person understand their own mind a little better, then it is worth telling. As an aunt of sixteen nieces and nephews, I want to be a positive influence — someone who helps them think, feel, and grow stronger. That is why everything I do — whether in fashion, art, or words — carries a sense of purpose.

Every child faces some kind of mental struggle, though most don’t realise that it is what it is. I was lucky — or maybe strong enough — to recognise early on that what I was feeling was connected to my mental health. Instead of projecting it onto others, I started searching for the right kind of help and learning how my mind works.

Even as a teenager, I would ask myself, “Why is this person talking to me like that? What have I done to them?” That is when I first understood projection — that people often act from their own pain, not because of something you did.

I grew up in a Lebanese school in Panama and faced a lot of bullying. At first, I didn’t understand why. Eventually, I realised that those who hurt me were often repeating what they experienced at home. But no one explained this to me — back then, mental health wasn’t something we talked about. I had to figure it out on my own.

At eighteen, I went to therapy for the first time. I would sit for hours, talking and thinking, “Okay, but where’s the solution?” Until I finally realised — no one can give you the solution. You have to create it yourself. That realisation taught me responsibility, and that was the first step forward.

Over time, I learned that compassion is key. When someone was rude — a stranger, a friend, anyone — I chose to stay kind. A simple smile, a soft response. Those small daily choices became my practice. You don’t wake up compassionate; you build it, one act at a time.

I also learned that living as a victim leads nowhere. If I kept saying, “Poor me, everyone’s against me,” I would stay stuck forever. So I promised myself to face every trauma before I got married — because I didn’t want to pass it on. Healing was hard work, but it was worth it.

But I was still a teenager. And eventually, the unprocessed emotions turned into anxiety. I began having panic attacks — sometimes four times a week. I would be sitting at dinner, surrounded by laughter, while inside I was shaking, my heart racing. No one knew what was happening. The first time, I thought I was dying. I went to the hospital and stayed for hours, only to learn it was a panic attack — my thoughts spiralling out of control.

So I started practising awareness inside the panic itself. When it came, I would tell myself: “Okay, you’re here again — but I’m not afraid of you. Let’s talk.” That self-talk changed everything. Instead of resisting, I met the panic with compassion. I would ask myself: "Did something trigger me? Can I control it? No?" Then I will let it go.

Sometimes I would whisper, “This energy is not mine. In the name of Allah, the Most Merciful, I release it.” Slowly, I would calm down.

I created small mental “hacks.” Whenever a bad thought appeared, I would say: “Block. Block. That’s not me.” It sounds simple, but it worked. I trained my brain to protect my peace instead of feeding my fear.

That is when I began to see how spirituality and psychology are connected. Therapy helped me — especially EMDR, a trauma-focused therapy that helps reprocess painful memories. It doesn’t erase what happened, but it takes away its power over you.

Faith became my anchor. For me, tawakkul — full trust in Allah — is the highest form of letting go. I even wear a bracelet to remind myself. Whenever something happens, I touch it and say, “Tawakkalt.” It brings me back to surrender and trust.

The more I trusted, the calmer life became. I stopped trying to control everything or please everyone. Detachment became freedom.

I also started treating myself like a friend. If I felt sad, I would say: “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel this — just don’t live in it.” Because self-love isn’t about perfection; it is about showing up for yourself when no one else will.

Most people want quick happiness, but real growth takes patience. Acceptance comes first. Once you say, “Yes, this is my reality,” everything begins to shift.

Through all of this, I learned that the mind is the real battlefield. It is us versus us — our thoughts, our fears, our choices. The question is: Will I let the darkness play with my mind, or will I live in the light?

For me, that light is God. Prayer is my mindfulness — the moment God gives me every day to pause, breathe, and come back to the present.

People talk about the light at the end of the tunnel — but what they don’t realise is that the light is already within us. And once you bring that light into your mind, you understand: there is always a way out.