For years, I watched my son struggle — and I watched him do what he was told to do. He reached out. He stayed in care. He followed the recommendations he was given. He trusted that it would help him.

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I had concerns, even then — about how quickly medications were prescribed, often in combination, without a clear understanding of how they were affecting him. In my own studies in psychology, including clinical psychology I had learned how uncertain the science can be — and how limited our ability is to predict who will be helped, and who might be harmed.

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But Phillip trusted the system. And because he trusted it, he followed where it led.

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When he began to struggle more intensely, he did what he was supposed to do. He entered therapy. He was prescribed antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications.

When they brought only limited relief — or relief that did not last — he was labeled treatment-resistant.

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From there, a pattern began to take shape. Doses were increased. Medications were layered. Then adjusted. Then layered again.

The side effects were not minor. They altered how he felt in his own body — fogginess, exhaustion, emotional numbness, dizziness, nausea, pain.

When he tried to come off some of the medications, his body reacted in ways no one had prepared him for. There was pain — often in his back, but not only there — and other physical symptoms that were never clearly named or explained.

No one said: this could be withdrawal. No one said: this might be your nervous system reacting.

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The line between treatment and illness did not just blur. It disappeared.

He still tried to move through daily life, even as his body no longer felt like his own.

When the side effects became too much, he had to wait — sometimes weeks — before he could be seen again.

In those stretches, between medication changes and appointments, he was left to endure it on his own.

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He tried to explain what was happening to him. At times, he felt they did not believe him — or that what he was experiencing was being dismissed.

And slowly, something began to shift. It became harder to tell what was depression. What was medication. What was withdrawal.

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Even for him.

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That confusion was not theoretical. It was lived. And it mattered.

Because the system responded to what it believed it was seeing. Not necessarily to what was actually happening.

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After I lost my son, I began listening more closely — to other families, to other mothers.

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And I realized his story was not an isolated one. There were patterns.

People who reached out. Who stayed in care. Who followed recommendations.

And still — something went wrong.

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What I have come to understand is this: For some individuals, what is experienced internally does not always align with how symptoms are classified or treated in care.

And when that misalignment is not recognized, the consequences can be devastating.

This is not about rejecting care. It is about seeing more clearly.

Because what is not seen cannot be understood.

And what is not understood cannot be safely treated.

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We knew the signs. We sought help. And still, our sons and daughters died. 

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These deaths are often treated as rare, as unexplainable — as if there is nothing more to understand.

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SEEN was created from that realization.

To make space for these stories.

And to begin looking more closely at what is being missed— so other families may not have to walk this path. 

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Phillip should still be here. In the space he left, this work begins.

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