The typical paraphernalia of protest was all present: witty signs, bullhorns, an enormous crowd. As the protestors charged onto the parliamentary forecourt, their slogans echoed off of the marble facade. But they had suddenly gone silent. Out of the crowd stepped four people, and they began to tell their stories. Relentless feelings of inadequacy, the ceaseless pressure of depression, a close call with suicide—they were stories we don’t usually share.