Making Time for Your Mental Health: It’s No One Else’s Job
- Shannon Hurst
- Sep 24
- 6 min read
Mental health is our wealth. It’s the foundation for how we show up in life, at work, and for the people we care about and love. And yet, so many of us shove it to the side until we break.
According to the World Health Organization, 1 in 4 people will experience a mental health challenge in their lifetime, and more than 50% of people don’t receive the help they need. In Canada, nearly 5 million people live with a mood or anxiety disorder, yet stigma and busyness often keep us silent.
The truth is simple but hard: no one else can take care of our mental health for us. It’s our job and it’s not selfish to prioritize it. It’s survival.
My Last 12 Months: A Total Shit Kicking
The last month has been extremely hard on a mental and emotional level for me. Heck, let’s be honest, the last 12 months have been a total shit kicking.
My mom was my best friend. We talked every single day, sometimes several times a day for decades. She was the only other parent to my boys and my biggest support network.
When she got sick, it quickly became obvious she was changing her residency to heaven.
In that moment, the only thing that mattered was being there for her, just as she had always been there for me.
I shoved my fears, hurt, and devastation deep down and focused on the importance of the moments. For three months, I flew back and forth from Calgary to Ontario, 10 days with Mom, 7 days at my bakery, while still holding things together for my boys. Each son got his own week with their nana before she could no longer enjoy it, and in hindsight, that was such a beautiful gift.
By December, I knew we were in the end stages. I shut my bakery doors forever, loaded up the boys and our pup, and drove 39 hours through brutal winter storms to get home in time for Christmas.
She was still holding on, and I will forever be grateful for that.
The following days were some of the hardest of my life. Mom had asked for MAID, Medical Assistance in Dying.
I hated the idea. Every fibre of me wanted to scream “no,” but it wasn’t my life, it wasn’t my decision. My job was to love her through it.
Forty-eight hours after being approved, she was gone.
On December 29th, 2024, the woman who had shaped me, carried me, and helped me through every storm was gone.
Running from Grief
After her death, I didn’t stop moving. For eight months I worked, traveled, hiked, and drove thousands of kilometres... anything to keep from being still.
I filled my days with distractions. I hiked mountains and wandered trails until my legs ached. I drove through provinces, states and countries, chasing the horizon with music blaring just to drown out the silence. I said yes to every opportunity, every trip, every invitation, because the thought of sitting still with my grief felt unbearable.
It was like watching a river in spring runoff, raging, roaring, flooding everything in its path. If it stopped moving, the waters would pool and stagnate. That was me: racing to stay ahead of the flood.
I kept telling myself I was strong, that I was surviving. But really, I was running. Running from the memories, the quiet, the unbearable finality of knowing my mom, my anchor, my daily phone call, my person, was gone forever.
A Different Kind of Grief
And yet, this grief is unlike any I’ve experienced before. With all the other losses in my life, there were questions that haunted me, anger that simmered, and the unfairness of life pressing down hard. But with Mom, it’s different. We got to say our goodbyes. She went out on her own terms, after living a full, beautiful life. There’s no lingering “why,” no sense of injustice, just the quiet recognition that this is how it should be. It’s a strange, almost peaceful grief, heavy with love and absence, but devoid of the turmoil that marked my past losses. I miss her with all my heart, yet there’s a comfort in knowing she lived and left with grace, and that makes this sorrow feel unlike any other.
Her house finally sold, and weeks ago I returned east to pack up 81 years of her life. Walking through each room, touching her clothes, sorting through her books and kitchenware, it all felt impossible. Every drawer was a story. Every closet was a reminder. It wasn’t just “stuff.” It was her.
Coming home with pieces of her, I expected to feel relief. Instead, life shifted hard. My fun, fairly new relationship, seemingly ended without explanation. My oldest went back to school. My youngest started working. The house was quiet. And suddenly, I was drowning in loneliness, grief and change.
This is the thing about mental health, you can ignore it, numb it, or bury it, but eventually it shows up at your door.
How I’m Finding My Way
If you have read any of my past blogs, I talk about how the mountains are my compass. When I feel lost, I run to them. They remind me that storms pass, meadows return to bloom, and even in burned-out forests, tiny green shoots fight their way to the light.
Yesterday, after a full day at a new part-time job in a crystal shop, I was struggling, I wanted to call my mom, the man I had been getting to know, a friend... But instead, I grabbed my dog Denali and bolted for the trailhead.
I hiked hard and fast, 700 feet straight up. Out of breath, I sat on a rock, staring at the valley as the alpenglow kissed the peaks. For the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe.
And in that moment, I realized how far I’ve come and yet there were still miles left on this journey.
Finding my way right now looks messy. It’s not a straight line, and it doesn’t look like healing the way movies portray it. It looks like crying in my truck. It looks like talking out loud to my mom when no one is around. It looks like laughing with my boys one minute and feeling crushed by loneliness the next. It looks like choosing to show up for work when I’d rather hide under the covers.
But it also looks like strength. It looks like climbing mountains when my legs want to give out. It looks like listening to the river until it drowns out the ache in my chest. It looks like standing in a meadow full of wildflowers and realizing beauty still exists, even in the middle of heartbreak.
The truth is, I can’t change death, heartbreak, or the ache of an empty nest. But I can choose to breathe. To grieve. To let go. To notice the blessings. To be grateful for the privilege of growing older.
Final Thoughts: Your Mental Health is Your Wealth
I started with, our mental health is our wealth and it's so true. Whatever it takes for you to find yours, do it. Don’t wait a minute, tomorrow is not guaranteed. Tell the people you love that you love them. Tell your friends and those you cherish, you appreciate them. Tell your partner the things you love about them. Even tell a stranger something kind.
Like the forest, we are made of seasons. Some bring growth, some bring storms, some bring loss, but all are part of the cycle of life.
I’ve shared my story because I know I’m not the only one fighting through grief, loneliness, and change. Maybe you’ve been there too, or maybe you’re in the middle of your own storm right now.
I know this blog was heavy but life doesn’t wait and neither should we. If you’re reading this, take one step today toward protecting your mental health. Go outside, call a friend, write down one thing you’re grateful for. Appreciate the people and blessings in your life, say your sorry, make amends. Small steps change everything.
Because just like the mountains, we can weather anything, but only if we take care of the foundation first.
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