I’ve never met Lyla (pronounced like ‘Layla’) because she lives in Cairo, by the airport. The weather there seems unpleasant—dry and hot. But that’s where she lives, the mighty Nile cutting through her city (but she doesn’t live by the Nile, either).

I met Lyla on Twitter, back in April 2015. People struggling with their mental health sometimes message me, or I message them; I can’t remember who reached out to whom first, but Lyla and I talked for some time. I quickly learned her story: born in California, her family moved to Cairo when she was 11. Now she’s been living there for over a decade. But depression’s hit Lyla, hard. She cuts, often plagued by suicidal thoughts. She’s shown me those cuts and scars before; my heart breaks every time I see them because if you knew Lyla, you’d know she’s about the last person on Earth who deserves to feel this way.

She first cut when she was 16. Nothing triggered it; it was just one of those days. I know those days all too well. They start adding up, and that day stretches into a few days into a week into a month. By the time I met her, she was 18 and she’d made it a year without cutting; she relapsed a month later. But Lyla, brimming with perseverance whether she believes it or not, is still kicking, still fighting, still living.

Lyla’s story—her immense toughness—is so remarkable because she has done it with little if any support. She’s hesitant to reach out, and I don’t blame her; she’s tried before, but it seems like no one in Egypt gives a shit about mental health. Apologies for the language, but nothing gets me heated like those in need unable to get help. Especially if we’re talking about my friends.

Lyla understands the struggle like no one else I’ve ever met. When she hurts herself, endlessly cries, thinks things that aren’t true, withdraws from everyone—I understand that. I understand on the deepest possible level. I really do. But the difference between us is that she doesn’t have a supportive family, therapy, medication; she’s on her own in a place that does not offer even remotely adequate support. If you’ve ever gone through our struggle, you know how hard that is. I’m essentially the only person she can fully open up to, and even though I live in North Carolina and she lives on the other side of the world, I’ve helped her through so much. But I’m not sure she understands the effect she’s had on me. I’m okay telling my family and close friends what I’m going through, but Lyla’s the only one who actually understands. For that and much more, our friendship is invaluable.

But Lyla’s not simply some depressed young woman stuck in a bad situation, and I don’t want to you view her as that. She’s a college student, even with everything she’s dealing with. She’s a daughter, a sister, a friend. She has the warmest giggle you can imagine with a smile to match. She reads all my articles, all my stories, even my manuscript; I can’t tell you how important this is to me. She loves a good sunset and good food. She cares immensely for those around her, even when she doesn’t think she does. And when she’s at home, she wears an absurd unicorn onesie, using the hood as her hijab. I’m laughing at the thought of it. Lyla doesn’t take herself too seriously. She’s taught me how to do that, too. It’s just the type of person she is.