Growing up with a parent who struggled with depression was my version of “normal.” It sounds bizarre, I know, but I had no other frame of reference. I genuinely believed that every mother cried herself to sleep, that all parents had stints in rehab, and that it was typical for families to navigate the ups and downs of mental illness like it was just another Tuesday. My reality was defined by the cycles of her illness—days of light and dark, rather than the regular calendar.
I remember the routine of doctor visits and the array of medications that lined our kitchen counter, the colorful pills a constant presence in my life. I attended AA meetings with her, doodling in the corner while she sought support. The image of my mother, isolated in her room for hours, consumed by tears and devoid of joy, became the backdrop of my childhood. There was little laughter, few moments of warmth, and it felt like the vibrant essence of life had been stripped away, leaving only a hollow shell to prepare meals and drive me to school.
It wasn’t until I visited a friend’s home and saw a different reality that I started to understand the disconnect. There was laughter, warmth, and a mother who wasn’t consumed by her own demons. But I kept quiet, burying my awareness deep down because facing it made it all the more real, and that terrified me. I pretended everything was fine, shielding myself and others from the harsh truth that depression had cast a long shadow over my life. I thought I was safe from its grasp.
Forgive my ignorance; I didn’t truly understand depression. I had never experienced it firsthand. I had lived through it as a witness, but I couldn’t comprehend the depths of despair that come with it. I couldn’t fathom the idea of being unable to care for your own children, of self-harm as a means of coping, or the desperation of needing your child to guide you through another hospital intake while you pleaded for help.
If this sounds judgmental, that wasn’t my intention. I simply could not wrap my mind around those feelings. For years, I held on to my lack of empathy for my mother. I questioned why she couldn’t just overcome her struggles. During her darkest moments, I often yelled at her to get it together, to move on, thinking her pain was a weakness. That all shifted when depression claimed her life through suicide, and suddenly, everything clicked into place.
I’m ashamed to admit that I spent too many years judging her struggles harshly. I lacked empathy, which, as I now understand, is one of the worst things to withhold from someone in pain.
Perhaps my rage clouded my ability to empathize, even with friends who battled similar feelings. I had sympathy, yes, but empathy was a different beast entirely. Brene Brown describes this difference beautifully: sympathy is merely feeling sorry for someone else’s hardships, while empathy is the act of saying “me too,” of truly placing yourself in someone else’s shoes.
I shudder at the memories of my past thoughts, perched high on my judgmental horse. In my mind, if I could twist or mock their struggles, it made them seem less significant. But depression is not just sadness. It’s not a sappy movie moment that brings tears or a rainy day that can be cured with a good cry. It is torment—pure, unrelenting torment.
It attacks the mind in unimaginable ways, and yet, we expect those suffering to simply “snap out of it” and continue with their lives. Depression seeps into every aspect of existence, making even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable.
Imagine an old wound that refuses to heal. It oozes and aches regardless of the bandages you apply. At times, the pain is so overwhelming that all you can do is lie still, while at other moments, you can move, but only through a fog of discomfort. That is what living with depression is like—an open wound that may scab over but never truly goes away.
Here’s what I’ve come to realize about my mother and friends who are struggling: they are not just sad. It’s not merely a gloomy day they’re experiencing. I regret ever thinking that, and I apologize for any time I urged someone to simply “smile.” I now see that my mother needed empathy, a “me too,” in my words and actions.
While I couldn’t offer that back then, I can now. To all the friends battling through their pain, to the mothers who cry themselves to sleep, to those who struggle to rise each morning: I’m sorry. Your pain is uniquely yours. I won’t attempt to fix it, change it, or provide quick-fix solutions. I won’t offer you ten tips on how to be happy, nor will I tell you to toughen up. Instead, I want to sit with you in silence, scream at the world alongside you, and support you through those tears. You are strong; you can overcome this. And if you ever need reminding, I’ll be right by your side.
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Summary: The author reflects on growing up with a mother struggling with depression and the misunderstandings that come with it. After her mother’s tragic death, she realizes the importance of empathy and the true nature of depression, moving from judgment to understanding. Now, she expresses her support for those facing similar struggles.