An e-zine sharing the stories and letters of persons living with schizophrenia and their loved ones
Created May 2026
A zine to commemorate World Schizophrenia Awareness Day 2026
In support of World Schizophrenia Awareness Day on 24 May 2026, the South African Federation for Mental Health (SAFMH), Family Support for Schizophrenia (FSS), and The South African Depression and Anxiety Group (SADAG) collaborated on a short e-zine to highlight the lived experiences of people affected by schizophrenia.
We invited contributions in the form of short letters (200–250 words) to help raise awareness, challenge stigma, and promote a more compassionate understanding of this oftenmisunderstood condition.
This zine is an exercise in bridging the gap between persons living with schizophrenia and their loved ones. It’s also a chance to share the voices of those whose lives have been impacted. The contributors have shared their stories in their own words.
Please note that all contributors have given their consent for their stories to be shared.
A piece of my story
By Chrisna Steenkamp
I was diagnosed with schizophrenia at the age of fifteen, a time when most young people are still trying to understand themselves and their place in the world. My experience was shaped by not only my own diagnosis, but also by the fact that my late father also had Schizophrenia. This gave me early exposure to the condition, but it did not make navigating it any easier when it became part of my own life.
I struggled to cope in a traditional school environment. The symptoms I experienced made it difficult to concentrate, engage, and keep up academically. Eventually, I completed my matric through homeschooling, which provided the flexibility and support I needed during that time.
A key part of my journey has been learning the importance of consistent treatment and support. Medication plays a critical role in helping me manage my symptoms and maintain stability. Equally important has been the guidance of both my Psychologist and Psychiatrist. Together, they provide the therapeutic support and medical care I need to understand my condition better, develop coping strategies, and build resilience.
Despite these early challenges, my journey did not end there. I went on to study psychology, driven by the desire to better understand both my own experiences and the experiences of others. This path has been both empowering and meaningful.
Today, I am fortunate to live a happy and fulfilling life. I have a strong support system made up of incredible friends, a caring family, and a supportive partner. Their presence has played a significant role in my stability and growth.
Sharing my story is something I consider a privilege. It is important to me to show that a diagnosis does not define a person’s future. With the right support, understanding, and resilience, it is possible to build a life that feels normal, meaningful, and joyful.
living with someone diagnosed with schizophrenia
By Wilma Steenkamp
My journey with my late spouse, who suffered from schizophrenia, began 35 years ago.
When we got married, I realised that “something was wrong”, but I was under the impression that he was experiencing a form of depression. He had received treatment periodically (before our marriage), but as soon as he started feeling better, he unfortunately stopped taking his medication. It was only after we got married, at the age of 35, that he was correctly diagnosed with schizophrenia.
I knew nothing about schizophrenia, so I had to educate myself to support him in his journey. During this time, the organisation “Family Support for Schizophrenia” really saved my life through the positive support, knowledge, and information I received from their members.
It was a difficult journey to convince him that he needed to take medication for life, and unfortunately, the damage to his brain, due to the late diagnosis, was too severe to allow him to continue his profession as an accountant. He was therefore medically boarded at the age of 37.
My youngest daughter, due to the possible hereditary nature of schizophrenia, was also diagnosed at the age of fifteen.
Because I had already walked a long path with my spouse, I was able, together with her psychiatrist, to recognise early on that she likely also had Schizophrenia.
I took nearly five years to find the correct combination of medication for her. During this time, she was hospitalised several times due to severe psychosis and hallucinations. On the recommendation of her psychiatrist and psychologist, she completed her schooling through homeschooling (with the help of a tutor) and later went on to obtain her degree in Psychology.
Her success story is without a doubt due to early diagnosis, consistent use of medication, and a very positive mindset. Over the past six years, she has had no symptoms and is currently in a full-time corporate career that she truly enjoys.
I am a very grateful mother.
a poem for you
By Mary Jane
Oh! my darling girl, you are a woman now. How I imagine nothing greater than to see you fly.
Alas, the universe has different plans, and so at 26, your wings were overpruned.
That doesn't make you any less. It doesn't make you any more. It makes you a bird with unique wings.
Maybe you won't glide. Maybe you won’t soar. Maybe you won't even fly.
But this I know, and see in you. You don't need wings, for you have everything to make you you. Just you, an ability to listen with profound acuity, not just hear, like me, but listen, really listen.
A talent for seeing exactly when things should fall squarely into the realm of black and white.
A skill at taking complex problems, analysing them, and communicating them precisely in summary form. All that you have, all that you are, all that I want for you, all these things I see as hopes for you, dreams for you, opportunities for you.
Or are they - just?
In themselves, societal cages. Measuring you by our own understanding of flight. Not considering your compass is pointed to places we have never seen.
Oh! My darling girl.
By Anonymous Dear Brother
My dear brother,
I have wanted to write this letter for a long time, not because the journey is finished, but because we have survived enough of it to name what it has cost and what it has given back. When I look at you now—stable, teaching, living with gentleness and purpose—I still feel a quiet astonishment. It hasn’t erased the past, but it has redeemed it in ways I once thought impossible. There was a time when your illness filled every room of my life. I carried fear constantly: fear for your safety, fear for the people around you, fear that I might fail you. Loving you meant entering chaos without any map.
As a pastor and as your brother, I believed deeply in miracles and had almost no understanding of mental illness. When your world began to fracture, I stood with you through sleepless nights, trying to separate faith from fear, truth from distortion, love from desperation. I was exhausted in ways I didn’t know a person could be. I lost time with my wife and children. I absorbed trauma quietly, telling myself to stay strong, only to realise much later how deeply it had marked me.
What hurt most was knowing you never chose this. My anger came tangled with guilt, because how do you grieve what someone lost when they are still alive and still deeply loved? And yet, even in that grief, you never lost your kindness. Even in your darkest seasons, your heart remained gentle. That taught me more than any theology ever could.
Your recovery did something profound in me. It stripped away certainty and replaced it with compassion. It forced me to accept help, medicine, doctors, and limits. It deepened my faith instead of destroying it. I now know that healing is often slow, layered, and painfully human—and still holy.
Seeing you safe now feels like mercy after years of turbulence. You have rebuilt a life with courage, humility, and persistence. Your recovery is not just your victory; it is part of my healing too. It reminds me that broken stories can still be beautiful, that love can survive illness, and that staying really staying is sometimes the strongest form of faith.
Dear X,
A good, hard story By
I’m writing to you as your sister-in-law, and as someone who has cared deeply about you since you were very small. I met you when you were only two years old, much younger than your other older siblings; over time, I often felt more like a mother to you than a relative.
When most of the family emigrated, we were the closest home base you had, and we tried—sometimes imperfectly, but always sincerely to offer you stability and a place of belonging. One of the hardest truths for all of us has been accepting that you did not ask for this illness. Nobody does.
You will understand how painful it has been to watch someone so kind and gentle behave in ways that felt unreal, frightening, and completely out of character. Here on the ground, so much of the responsibility fell on your brother, my husband, and I want you to know what that looked like day to day: getting you certified and admitted, leaving work at a moment’s notice, following you during episodes, sleeping in unfamiliar places, collecting you from unsafe situations, and trying to reason with you in hospitals across the country. It was exhausting, isolating, and at times frightening.
I also need to be honest with you that I struggled with resentment when decisions were made from afar while the day-to-day weight and risks were carried here, by us. Even between siblings, it was hard to know what “the right thing” was, and at times it felt as though people froze because they didn’t know how to respond.
J
We tried to include you in our family life as much as we could holidays, trips away, special occasions, and even having you stay in our home while quietly carrying guilt when we felt overwhelmed or when we didn’t want the chaos in our space. Then there came a point when our own child reached breaking point, and we had to make a painful decision to protect our son and our home. I want you to hear this clearly: choosing that boundary did not mean we loved you less, or that we stopped caring. It meant we had reached the limits of what we could safely carry as a family.
Today, you are in a more stable place, and we are grateful. We have learned that setting boundaries is not unkind, and that peace often lies in accepting both the good and the hard. Support from others walking a similar path makes this journey bearable, reminding us that no one should face it alone. It is, as Catherine Wolf would say, a good, hard story. It just keeps on, keeping on. I don't know how one does this alone.
I wouldn’t wish this road on any family, and I also believe you shouldn’t have to carry it alone. I hope that, moving forward, we can all keep finding steadier ground holding compassion for you while also being realistic about what support looks like and who can carry it.
With care, J
To my mother,
You did not understand when the doctor said the first disorder; but you refused to not understand, you completed training and courses even read books, just to know who I am and help me however you can.
Most people fear when someone is distracted from reality, and each person is different, thus making it hard to understand.
But for me, when those voices come calling my name, screaming that I am to blame and should not be live. I call you mom, and in your calm voice filled with love the voices are gone. Unfortunately, when I see the metro police, my reaction is unexplainable.
My anger overtakes and I can’t make out what they plan or say but I know, I’ll die fighting all the way. And then You come again and assure me I am safe, just like a child I feel happiness, peace and unconditional love.
I do believe the voices don’t seem to like when other care. I might hear their rude and breaking word but they can’t enter your safe home. They stand and try to call, but their scared of something unknown.
My mom, I have to say this and these words are long overdue. I would have quit this fight long ago if it was not for you. I take away all my fears, you pray away those I hear.
But my biggest gift is that not even for a moment, you judged the way I am.
You prayed and prayed until I took God’s hand.
You still ensure I feel safe, and never forget that with you I am home.
My beautiful mother with unending love, why can’t all who struggle with mental illness be loved?
A mother’s truth
By Anonymous
My dear son,
It has been twelve years since I first heard the word psychosis and since I first became involved with a community of those caring for people with schizophrenia. It was 2012, and I had noticed with some anxiety how you had become withdrawn and passive. Little did I realise this was the onset of what would later be diagnosed as the negative symptoms of schizophrenia. I thought you were depressed because you weren’t enjoying your studies, but together with that (and what we didn’t know), you were smoking huge amounts of cannabis.
I don’t know if cannabis brought on the psychosis, but when you started shouting, swearing at me, and throwing things around, things became really scary. It was the day before a set of public holidays, and try to find a doctor at that time!
But now, dear son, it is twelve years on. The doctor managed to find the right antipsychotic medication, you are almost off the antidepressants, you are exercising regularly, and you even have a part-time job that you really enjoy. Who would have thought this could happen? A special shout-out is due to the occupational therapist, who, I believe, gave you confidence and structure to grow to where you are now.
You are the kindest, gentlest young man I know, and I can only wish you fulfilment and happiness for the future.
In memory of
BY CHENÉ BEUKES
Dear Bronwyn Robert Badenhorst,
My bear, you were the most wonderful man I even knew and I was blessed with every minute I had with you. Most thought you were crazy and feared you. And they were right to be scared because you, yourself feared the beast inside you, I know you felt like you lost control, but please know that I never feared you. I just wanted you to be safe, I didn’t care about your inner demons or your past. My biggest dream was to spend everyday with you up to my last.
I know you hated yourself for things that you could not remember. I know you think you broke me and don’t know how I got the scars. But that was not you. You had no control.
During your weakest moments, you confided in me your darkest secrets that no one knew. And those secrets explained exactly the pain you endured, to lead to the beast.
I loved you from the day we met, and I will love you in this life and the next. I love you no matter how many times reality left your mind.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you when you lost control. I pay the price each day, by being alone. You were and would always be the lid to my pot, the key to my lock. But now all I have are memories are our moments together, and I can’t help but cry that you could not stay with me forever.
I love forever and thereafter; we will meet again in the life hereafter.
With all my love. from your Babyface.
conversations with my son
By Deena Mother
Hi. I want to understand where you’re at how you’re feeling, and what your current condition feels like to you.
Son
What I want you to understand is that I have potential, but I’m really frustrated that I can’t fulfil it the way I want to. I know I’ve got a lot in me I just can’t do everything I want to do right now.
Mother
Thank you for telling me. What should I understand as the main thing that moves you—what motivates you most? Is it food?
Son
Smoking. And… nice take-outs. I really love takeouts.
My dear daughter,
A mother’s wish
By Anonymous
I’ve started and stopped this letter so many times, because I don’t know how to say it without it sounding heavy. But I need you to hear me clearly: I love you more than I can put into words. You are my child you’ll always be my child and I miss you: the you that feels close, safe, and present with us.
The last few years have been exhausting and chaotic — especially for you. There have been hospitalisations, long stretches where we can’t connect properly, and times when paranoia takes over. Watching this happen to my much-loved daughter is devastating.
When you’re well and taking your medication, we can chat, laugh, and enjoy ordinary things. I see the bright, funny, clever girl I know — those moments are like sunshine.
But when you stop taking your medication — sometimes within a few days — it unravels. You pull away, you don’t pitch for meetups, you don’t answer calls or messages. It feels like you disappear behind a wall I can’t climb, no matter how much I love you.
I can only guess what it’s like when things go sideways: confusion, fear, noise, voices, the sense that someone is coming, or that you’re waiting for a person who never arrives. When the world feels unsafe, even stepping outside or reaching out can feel impossible.
I’m writing because it breaks my heart to see you trapped in that chaos and it’s even harder when you can’t recognise what’s happening, or when the illness convinces you that nothing is wrong.
This is the part that hurts to admit: love doesn’t beat psychosis. Love can’t argue a delusion away or switch the fear off. I can love you with my whole being and still feel helpless when the illness takes over.
So we wait, hope, and hold our breath. We pray you’ll stay on your medication because it gives you the best chance at steadiness and a decent quality of life. And every relapse feels like losing you again while you’re still right here.
I’m not hoping for a perfect life or a fairy-tale ending. I’m hoping for steadiness: the right treatment, the right support, and a life that isn’t ruled by chaos. You didn’t ask for this, and it’s not your fault. I still believe there’s a way forward where you feel safer in yourself and the good parts of life don’t keep getting stolen from you.
I want a relationship where I’m not the enemy where you can hear my love without it feeling like pressure or control, and where you can accept help when things start slipping. I can’t force insight on you, and I can’t make choices for you. But I can promise you this: I’ll keep showing up with love and support, and I’ll keep hoping those clear, bright stretches last longer and longer.
I wish you health and stability. I wish you a life with purpose — even if it looks different from what you imagined years ago. And I wish you the kind of peace where you can breathe again. I love you, always.
Mom
The power of hope
By Anonymous
My Dearest Son,
Watching you navigate each day with the weight of schizophrenia takes courage I can barely put into words. As your mother, I am so profoundly proud of you—not for being “well,” but for how you persevere when things are hardest. You have matured into a man of quiet strength, and I see it all.
My greatest hope for your future isn’t fame or fortune. It’s contentment—a deep, quiet sense that your life has meaning just as it is. I hope you can always see the God-given gifts around you: a family who adores you, friends who show up, and medical professionals who truly care. I’m grateful for your physical health and for the medications that keep you on the road to recovery.
Please, stick with what is working. Trust this treatment plan it’s your lifeline.
I also hold onto hope that science will find a cure for schizophrenia in the near future. Until then, know that you are never alone in this fight. You are my son, and being your mother is one of the greatest honours of my life. Keep going, one day at a time, with gratitude in your heart.
All my love, Mom
