I never truly understood mental health until about four years ago.
My dad has been sick on and off since he was 48. Over the years, I spent countless hours with him in hospitals—sitting beside him, supporting him, making sure he knew he wasn’t alone. I could tell how much it meant to him, and I made it a priority to check on him most weeks.
The last time he became seriously ill was just two days after I sold my previous company. I had been working nonstop to close the deal and was ready to slow things down. I went to my parents’ house with the plan of taking my dad to the cottage so we could spend some quality time together.
When I arrived, something immediately felt off. My dad was sitting on the couch and couldn’t get up. Then I noticed the lip smacking—and I knew exactly what was happening.
Another stroke.
I didn’t wait for an ambulance. I helped him into my car and drove him straight to the hospital. Once again, he needed rehabilitation to relearn how to walk. This time, however, he lost most of his speech.
What stayed with me was a strange and beautiful moment during rehab: there was a piano in the facility, and despite everything, he could still play. He could still sing. The mind is an incredible thing.
A few months later, my dad had a seizure, which is something that common for stroke survivors. This happened just three weeks before a planned family vacation to Florida. While I spent the entire trip worried about my dad, it was actually my mom who ended up in trouble. On New Year’s Day, she fell off a bicycle, broke her ankle, and needed surgery.
After visiting my mom in the hospital, my dad and I returned to the house. That’s when I felt it: a tingling sensation on the right side of my face. Then my arm. Then my entire right side.
It was just my dad and I at home. I tried to stay calm. I asked him to get his medication and told him we were going back to the hospital because something wasn’t right.
I brought him to my mom’s room and then went to the emergency department myself. I told the woman at the desk that I thought I was having a heart attack. She asked how I got there.
I told her I drove.
That moved things along quickly.
My heart rate was extremely high. After several tests, the doctor told me he believed I had experienced a panic attack. He prescribed medication. I was stunned. I had never felt anything like that before: intense, terrifying, and completely unfamiliar. Scary.
That was the first time I realized mental health could physically take over your body.
I took the medication once and stopped. It felt far too strong for me.
Looking back, I’m not sure whether I had anxiety before that moment or if I simply learned what to look for. I started noticing patterns: overthinking, spiraling, working myself up. I found ways to manage it: walking, staying active, distracting my mind. I’ll be honest. At times, I self-medicated with a couple of glasses of wine.
For years, I told myself I had it under control.
Then came 2025.
To add to everything, I separated from my wife at the same time. I won’t get into the details, but long work hours, constant travel, the emotional weight of my father’s health, and raising a young family all played a role. It was something I didn’t truly process until much later.
That Christmas, my kids and I spent the morning together with family. We opened gifts. We laughed. It was genuinely special. But after they left, I felt a deep void. A sadness I couldn’t shake.
I started overthinking my life and my choices. I felt embarrassed by the separation and by what I believed I had done to my kids, even though they were doing well and my ex and I always put them first.
At the same time, winter in Canada felt endless. The darkness. The cold. There were mornings when I simply didn’t have the energy to get out of bed.
So I made a decision I never thought I would make: I went on medication.
To this day, I have mixed feelings about it. Medication changes you. The lows aren’t as low, but the highs aren’t as high either. I was on the lowest dose and still felt the side effects. After a few weeks, things stabilized, and the side effects faded.
Around the same time, I started therapy.
That decision changed my life.
I now believe therapy is like going to the gym: it shouldn’t be reserved for crisis moments. It’s maintenance. It’s growth. It’s learning how to understand yourself. I was incredibly fortunate to find a therapist I connected with, and for the first time, I truly dealt with things I had been carrying for years.
Along this journey, my oldest son was testing for ADHD. My initial reaction was clear: please don’t put him on medication.
Instead, we worked with the school to find tools that help him learn and thrive.
Through this process, I started noticing something else: I’m very similar to my son. I had learning challenges throughout school, so I decided to get tested myself. The results confirmed it: I have a combined ADHD diagnosis. I can focus intensely on things I’m interested in, and struggle deeply with things I’m not.
What surprised me most was learning that ADHD often causes anxiety.
That realization changed how I see my own mental health journey. It made me wonder how many people are struggling without fully understanding the cause-and-effect behind what they’re feeling.
I’m not a doctor. I don’t believe there’s a magic wand. But I do believe that understanding yourself – doing your own research and choosing what feels right for you – is half the battle.
This journey taught me something simple but powerful:
Mental health doesn’t mean you’re weak.
It means you’re human.
And none of us are meant to carry everything alone.
The more I talk about this, the more I realize everyone has a story, and most people are relieved to share it. Talking about it is what helps us through challenging times.
We are not alone.
And what we’re experiencing is far more normal than we think.
This is why I started MSPWell.
-James Mignacca
Co-founder of MSPWell and CEO of Cavelo.com