Parenting
Some days, my mind can feel like a chaotic storm. Just yesterday was one of those days. A thick cloud of depression settled over me, dulling every thought. Even on a beautiful summer afternoon, I found the world shrouded in darkness. The joyful laughter of my children became an unbearable cacophony, and the connections I usually cherished felt weak and distant. I was left feeling profoundly empty.
On most days, when that cloud of despair begins to creep in, I can often shake it off. I have learned to employ various strategies to pull myself from the depths of my mind into the flow of life—whether by taking my kids to the park or pool, chatting with a friend, going for a little shopping spree, or even tidying up my home. Anything to engage me with the world around me.
However, there are times when simply occupying myself isn’t enough. Sometimes the weight of depression is just too heavy, and the sun pouring through the window feels blinding. All I want to do is retreat.
My partner, Mark, doesn’t experience depression. He can’t fathom how isolating it can be to feel utterly alone in a room full of people. He’s never felt the rush of fresh air when you finally force yourself outside after days of confinement. He doesn’t understand what it’s like for your child to smile at you and feel nothing in return.
For those who don’t struggle with depression, it can be easy to view someone’s life from the outside and enumerate all the logical reasons for them not to feel sad. But depression isn’t a rational beast. It doesn’t adhere to logic.
I recall a conversation with a friend named Sarah who was grappling with deep depression. On the surface, she had it all—a stable income, a loving partner, a circle of friends, a fulfilling career, and stunning looks. There was no rational reason for her to feel even a hint of discontent. Whenever we spoke, I would remind her of everything she had going for her. I struggled to comprehend why she felt the way she did. In my eagerness to pull her out of her sadness, I neglected to truly listen, to understand, and to connect with her experience.
What I’ve come to realize about depression is that it can ensnare us so completely that we become trapped inside our own minds. The world doesn’t see the real us but instead interacts with our depression. People aren’t reaching out to us; they’re reaching out to our illness. Depression can imprison us, creating immense frustration for those around us.
Yesterday, Mark and I faced an uphill battle against my depression. The more agitated he became, the tighter the hold depression had on me. He kept wanting to talk, asking me repeatedly what was wrong, but I couldn’t articulate it. Each unanswered question only fueled his frustration. We spent the evening in a tense silence, and he went to bed without a word. I felt defeated.
An hour later, I texted him simply, “Deep depression. I’m sorry.”
His response was filled with more questions: “Why didn’t you just say that? Next time, just tell me you’re depressed so I won’t think it’s me.”
But I can’t.
That’s the crux of living with depression. It silences me. I wanted to reach out to him; I craved that human connection and support. Yet, the weight of depression held me back.
Fortunately, my depression episodes usually don’t last long—generally just a day or two. I’ve worked tirelessly to combat it. Therapy has been beneficial, as has exploring spirituality, discovering new passions, and nurturing deep friendships. But the most crucial lesson has been understanding my depression—welcoming it in, listening to it, identifying what exacerbates it, and recognizing that when my actions feel more like mere motions and the fog thickens, sometimes the best remedy is to simply be still.
Depression wants action; it wants chaos in my life and relationships. It tries to convince me that a permanent solution to a temporary problem is the way out. It whispers falsehoods, suggesting the world would be better off without me. But knowing my depression well, I recognize its lies. It thrives on my belief in its falsehoods. By choosing to be still, I can listen to it without acting on its irrational thoughts, depriving it of the fuel it needs, allowing it to loosen its grip over time.
Every person’s battle with depression is unique; mine is different from yours. Yet, we share one common ability: the power to find stillness.
When everything seems overwhelming, just pause.
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