The Weight We Do Not See – Independent Newspaper Nigeria

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The first person to recognise a trig­ger is often someone already living with trauma. They know what hurts. They know when it hurts. They often know who caused the hurt. And sometimes, they know where relief comes from, even when that relief does not appear refined, acceptable, or understandable to the outside world.

Healing may come from external inter­ventions—medicine, therapy, counsel—but the recognition of trauma is profoundly internal. It begins with the quiet, often un­spoken awareness of the one carrying the wound. And it is precisely at this point that society most frequently fails. We are quick to offer solutions. Quick to advise. Quick to correct. Quick to judge. But slow, very slow, to understand.

This failure is not merely anecdotal; it is systemic and measurable. According to the World Health Organisation, one in every eight people globally lives with a mental health condition, with depression and anxi­ety disorders leading the burden. Trauma-re­lated conditions, often hidden beneath these diagnoses, continue to rise, especially in envi­ronments marked by instability, poverty, and social fragmentation.

In Africa, the burden is even more pro­nounced. Data from the Africa Centres for Disease Control and Prevention suggests that mental health disorders account for a significant and growing portion of non-com­municable diseases, yet investment in men­tal health remains less than one percent of national health budgets in many African countries.

Nigeria reflects this reality starkly. The Federal Ministry of Health, Nigeria, esti­mates that over 20 million Nigerians are af­fected by mental health conditions, yet access to care remains critically limited. The coun­try has fewer than 300 psychiatrists serving a population of over 200 million people, leaving the vast majority without professional sup­port. In such a landscape, society itself be­comes the first responder, or the first failure.

It is painful, therefore, to watch a society prescribe rejection, exclusion, and moral con­clusions without first sitting with the pain of those who have been consistently wounded— by heartbreak, by failure, by abuse, by loss, by the quiet erosion of hope.

Unattended trauma does not disappear; it transforms. It leaks into be haviour, into rela­tionships, into decisions. It reshapes percep­tion. And sometimes, what we are witnessing in people is not weakness, rebellion, or moral failure—but adaptation, endurance, survival.

What if, instead of rushing to speak, we paused? What if we truly saw? What if we truly listened? What if we chose to under­stand before we chose to judge?

Consider, for example, a woman who leaves her home after 15 or 25 years of mar­riage—or another who walks away after rais­ing five children. The first question society asks is: “Why?” followed quickly by: “What else could she be looking for?” Rarely do we ask the more essential question: “What was she enduring?”

Behind many departures are years of silent suffering—emotional neglect, psy­chological strain, sometimes violence, often invisibility. According to UN Women, one in three women globally has experienced

physical or sexual violence, most often from an intimate partner. In Nigeria, national surveys have shown that a significant percentage of women have experienced some form of domestic or intimate partner violence, yet cultural stigma and economic dependence keep many from speaking or leaving.

This pattern of misunderstanding is not limited to women or marriage. It extends to men who silently bear the burden of expectation, to children nav­igating unstable homes, to young people wrestling with identity, to individuals facing economic hardship in a nation where uncertainty has become routine.

The UNICEF reports that millions of children and adolescents globally ex­perience emotional distress, anxiety, or trauma-related challenges, many with­out access to support systems. In Nige­ria, where over 40% of the population is under the age of 15, the implications are profound. A generation is growing up within layers of visible and invisible strain.

If you have not worn the shoes, you can­not fully describe the pain or prescribe how it should be managed.

Yes, doctors treat patients without having lived their exact pain. But good doctors un­derstand something essential: they observe, they listen, they examine carefully. They do not look past the patient; they do not look above the patient; they look at the patient. Because to truly help, one must first truly see. This is the discipline society has yet to learn.

Many who claim to understand pain do not understand it at all. And that is why their words often feel hollow. When people genuinely understand what others are going through, they judge less, or they stop judg­ing entirely. Empathy is not agreement; it is awareness. It is the willingness to enter, even briefly, into the world of another without im­posing immediate conclusions.

Words are cheap in moments of crisis. Advice is abundant. Judgement is effortless. Butpresence—true, attentive, compassionate presence—is rare.

If someone is drowning, you do not stand at the edge of the water offering lectures on swimming techniques. You extend your hand. You act. You prioritise life over anal­ysis.

Life itself resists simplistic categorisa­tion. It is rarely black and white. More often, it unfolds in shades of grey—complex, lay­ered, and deeply human. To acknowledge this is not to excuse harmful choices, but to contextualise them. It is to recognise that be­haviour often emerges from deeper, unseen struggles. Because sometimes, what a person needs first is not direction, but a lifeline.

In Nigeria, where economic pressures, insecurity, and social expectations converge, the psychological toll is immense. Reports from the National Bureau of Statistics of Nigeria indicate rising levels of unemploy­ment and underemployment, particularly among young people. Economic strain is not merely financial; it is emotional, relational, and existential. It shapes how people see themselves, how they relate to others, and how they respond to adversity.

Against this backdrop, judgement be­comes not only unhelpful but also harmful. It deepens isolation. It reinforces silence. It pushes those already struggling further into the margins.

Imagine witnessing a fatal accident and choosing to ask questions instead of rescuing the victims. That is what we do, subtly but consistently, when we prioritise judgement over compassion.

When someone says, “Please help me,” it is rarely a simple request. It is often the cul­mination of internal battles, of hesitation, of fear, of vulnerability. To respond with distance, superiority, or cold instruction is to miss the moment entirely.

What is required is something both sim­ple and difficult: to listen. To understand. And, where possible, to help. Because no one fighting to survive needs a lecture. They need a hand.

So, before we judge, we must understand that every story carries a hidden struggle. We must also remember that the difference be­tween judgement and mercy is understand­ing. In a crisis, presence matters more than opinion. So, we should learn to give a hand before the lecture. This is important because when survival is misunderstood, what looks like weakness may be resilience.

*Balogun, an entrepreneur, writes from Lagos via [email protected]