Standing in the third floor Lowenstein bathroom, I was shaking, breathing difficultly, dizzy and numb. I wanted to run, to speak or to move, but somehow I couldn’t. This was my first panic attack. As someone who was never able to acknowledge or understand mental health issues, here I was in the second semester of my freshman year trying to make peace with this so-called “anxiety.”

I often wish that I had reached out to a friend instead of looking up anxiety and trying to understand panic attacks by myself. There were hundreds of articles, YouTubers and online communities talking about what I had thought was only my problem. I kid you not, because of the bathroom incident, this panic attack might have been understood as a “bewitching of Satan.” You might laugh, but it’s not funny.

I remember suggesting to a family member that it was time for us, as a family, to seek counseling or therapy of some kind. That individual laughed and proposed that perhaps we should go to that “Egyptian psychiatrist that all the crazy people go to.” Enough said. It only takes so long for negative perspectives to become a reality, one I was forced to believe.

As a teenager, I attended the masjid on Saturday nights. After Maghrib prayer, we had a woman teach religious sessions we would memorize the Quran or learn Arabic. Sometimes, a girl would ask a controversial question and soon enough, we would all be lectured. All I remember is constantly hearing the word “haram,” which means forbidden.

It wasn’t surprising, then, that almost every girl lived a double life. Outside the masjid, these consequences were felt within Muslim households. Parents were unable to deal with their sons when it was discovered they habitually smoked weed, and inevitably would verbally, emotionally and physically abuse their children. I found it ironic that parents would also cherry pick Quranic verses to try to prove that they’ve sinned. If a teenager felt comfortable enough to walk into a masjid and find someone who could openly give him advice, then the masjid would become home, as it should be.

Today, American Muslims are at the forefront of a silent war. We’re assaulted in the eyes of Donald Trump and his supporters and face Islamophobic bigotry, both physically and on social media. It seems as though we are being attacked every day: a Muslim family is shot, kids are being bullied and even workplaces have become toxic environments. We watch, hear and witness this. Additionally, our families add to the baggage by constantly calling and texting to make sure we’re alright. Though this is well-intentioned, it serves as a reminder of our vulnerability. In this sensitive time, our masjids are told to focus on finding “radicalized” youth. But it is even more important to acknowledge that our communities need to create safe spaces, without the FBI and without cultural baggage.

Last March, there was an incident in which a 20-year-old female Muslim student lied about an assailant in Manhattan whom she said slashed her face and called her a terrorist. It was considered a hate crime until the student admitted that the wound was self-inflicted. She had cut a two inch gash into her own face. None of the sheikhs (leaders of Muslim communities) that I looked up to acknowledged the incident. The hijab wearing woman was quickly forgotten. Still today, I wonder about the result of her psychological evaluation and how her family and community reacted to the situation. I hope that she’s okay, safe and unashamed in seeking help.

Another issue that we often ignore is that most Muslim communities have a predominantly immigrant population with high expectations and dreams for their children. They are allowed to be proud of their kids, but they do so by pressuring their daughters and sons to study and major in traditional fields. They not only devalue their children’s efforts, but also cause them to be overwhelmed.

Often times I wish that what I was going through was normal. I wish I could talk to my imam about my mother throwing out my medication, twice. There are counselors at Fordham, but it is different when one’s family is willing to understand and support them. No matter how educated, resilient and motivated we become as Muslims, it is not enough. We aren’t going to get far if we ignore and devalue mental health and those in our communities that are affected by it daily.