As a child, growing up with a parent who struggled with depression felt completely normal to me. It’s hard to explain, but I didn’t know anything different. I assumed all parents cried themselves to sleep, that every mother spent time in the psych ward multiple times a year, or that addiction problems were commonplace. That was just my reality. Depression was the backdrop of our family life.
I measured time not by days of the week or occasions but by the ups and downs of my mom’s illness. My ordinary life consisted of doctors’ appointments and prescriptions scattered on the lazy Susan atop our microwave. I still remember sitting in the back of the AA and NAA meetings, coloring quietly while my mom attended. My reality was a mother who often isolated herself in her room for hours, consumed by tears, with little joy or enthusiasm for life. It felt as if the vibrancy of her spirit had been forcibly drained, leaving behind only a shadow who prepared meals and took me places.
At 14, I believed every kid had a mom who inflicted self-harm during bouts of depression. That perception changed when I spent time at a friend’s house and recognized that wasn’t the case. I chose silence, as discussing it only highlighted the fact that depression loomed over our household and haunted my thoughts. I constantly pretended that things were better than they were, never revealing the pain that accompanied the mental illness I so deeply resented. I thought it would never touch me.
So, please forgive me. I truly didn’t understand depression. I wanted to, but it seemed to have missed me in the genetic lottery, and I’ve never experienced it myself. I’ve witnessed it and been a spectator to the chaos it creates. But I didn’t have that intimate understanding of the overwhelming feelings it brought. I couldn’t fathom the idea of not being able to care for your children, the urge to inflict pain on yourself because the emotional agony was so intense, or needing your child to support you through another psych ward admission while you begged doctors for help.
It just didn’t make sense to me. If my words seem critical, that’s not my intention. I genuinely can’t grasp those feelings and emotions. I acknowledge that I may never fully understand. However, I have extensively observed this illness up close. For many years, I lacked empathy for my mother’s struggles. Why couldn’t she just get it together? During her darkest moments, I often yelled at her to sort herself out and move on. It seemed like such a weakness… until her depression ultimately took her life. That’s when I had an awakening.
I regret to say that for a long time, I was judgmental—truly harsh in my assessments. I am sincerely sorry for my lack of empathy. Withholding empathy is perhaps the worst thing one can do to someone in pain.
Maybe my anger was so consuming that, even as an adult, I found it hard to empathize with friends battling depression. I felt sympathy but not genuine empathy, which is a significant difference. Brene Brown articulates this distinction beautifully: sympathy is merely pity for someone else’s struggles, while empathy is the understanding and connection of “me too,” an act of stepping into their shoes.
Thinking back, I cringe at my past thoughts and my high horse of judgment. In my mind, if I criticized or mocked someone’s struggle, it diminished its significance, making it seem like mere sadness, something anyone could shake off.
But depression is not just sadness. It’s not a tear-jerking movie or a rainy day with a glass of wine. It’s not the emotional response we feel during our monthly cycle or the tears shed when we miss a friend.
It’s pure torture. I don’t use that word lightly. Depression assaults the brain in ways unimaginable to those who haven’t experienced it. And then we expect people to simply snap out of it and carry on with their lives, as though they have control over this unshakable pain. It seeps into your very soul, preventing you from getting out of bed, picking up a crying child, or even taking a shower.
Imagine a long-ago injury that still oozes and weeps through any bandage you apply. Some days, the pain is too overwhelming to bear; other times, you can move but remain shrouded in a fog of discomfort. The pain is always there. Yet, you persist. You wake up, get dressed, and put on a smile, mostly pretending. That is what depression looks like—the wound that may scab and maybe even scar, but it always lingers.
Here’s what I now understand about my mother and those enduring similar battles: they aren’t simply sad. It’s not just a dreary day. I apologize for ever thinking that way. I regret pushing you to “just smile.” I wish I had offered more compassion to my mother. As a child, I couldn’t grasp it, but now, as an adult, I realize she could have used some empathy—some “me too” acknowledgment from me.
While I couldn’t offer it then, I can now. To my friends grappling with pain, to the mothers crying themselves to sleep, and to those struggling to face each new day: I’m sorry. Your pain is yours alone. I won’t attempt to fix it, change it, or bandage it. I won’t suggest ten ways to smile or tell you to toughen up. I want to be there with you in silence, to scream at the world alongside you, and to comfort you as you cry. We both know you’re strong, and I’ll always be here to remind you of that if you need it.
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Summary:
The author reflects on their experience growing up with a depressed parent, realizing only after her mother’s death how deeply depression affects individuals and families. Initially lacking empathy, she now expresses remorse for her past judgments and aims to support those facing similar struggles by acknowledging their pain and emphasizing the importance of compassion.