Living With Depression: Still Here, Still Becoming

It’s hard to put into words what depression feels like.

For me, it didn’t start with silence. It started with chaos. I was in college – going through the motions of a life I wasn’t really living. Behind the scenes, I was unraveling. There had been trauma. The aftermath of childhood sexual assault. A late-high-school dyslexia diagnosis explained why school had always felt harder than it should have. My first serious college relationship became controlling and violent. And beneath it all, a quiet belief that I was never going to be enough.

Instead of asking for help, I ran into chaos. The simplest thing could set me off. I had mood swings that made me unrecognizable, even to myself.  I was angry. Reckless. Sometimes cruel. I only felt safe moving through the world at night. I stopped going to class. I slept all day. As night fell, I’d get dressed, go out, party, come home, and repeat… until even that stopped. I withdrew completely. Isolated myself. Cut off contact with almost everyone. That’s when the stillness crept in, a kind of stillness I didn’t know was possible. I slipped into a prolonged, almost catatonic state, days at a time spent in bed.

I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. I was just… gone. Like I’d disappeared into a blank, heavy space where I couldn’t feel anything at all. Not calm. Not at peace. Just absent. A shell. A girl-shaped outline without the girl inside.

Eventually, my roommate, the only person close enough to see the full picture, told someone. She reached out to my family, and that uncomfortable act of courage probably saved my life. In the aftermath, I did what I’d always done. I tried to be “okay.” I saw a psychiatrist. Got on medication. Moved off campus. Found a job. And I started pretending. I convinced myself that if I just kept up the act – if I looked okay long enough – maybe I’d actually become okay.

I wish I could say that moment marked the beginning of healing. But the truth is, it would take me 20 more years to really begin. But the thing about depression is, it doesn’t go away just because you cover it up. It finds its way into the cracks. And eventually, those cracks give way.

The Glimmers That Kept Me Going

I don’t know exactly why I didn’t end my life. There were moments in middle school and again in college when I came very close. And I don’t say that for effect – I say it because it’s the truth.

Somewhere, buried beneath the silence and the shame, was a glimmer. Not a beam of light. Not even a full thought. Just a tiny flicker that maybe, maybe, there was something on the other side of all this. For me, the first steps back weren’t rooted in hope. They were rooted in obligation – in not wanting to disappoint my family or shatter the image of who I was supposed to be. So, I put one foot in front of the other. Not to heal, just to get through the day. And that was enough, for a while.

Success as a Disguise

From the outside, it looked like I had pulled myself together. I built a career. I was praised for being resilient – detail-oriented, driven, tireless. I moved fast, climbed quickly, and kept proving my worth over and over again. But the truth was in what no one saw. I was surviving by pouring everything into my work. Validation became my oxygen. If someone said I did a good job, that I went above and beyond, I’d chase that feeling, that dopamine hit… again and again. Because underneath the surface, I still didn’t believe I was worthy of being here.

That belief, the one depression teaches you, doesn’t always scream. Sometimes, it just whispers: You don’t matter. No one would notice if you were gone. You take up too much space. And if you hear it long enough, you start to believe it. I buried that voice just beneath the surface. I learned how to function. But it would take nearly twenty years before I stopped pretending and started facing what was really underneath. Because depression doesn’t just disappear. It waits. It adapts. And if you're not careful, it finds its way back into the same cracks you thought you’d sealed.

A Different Kind of Rock Bottom

By my mid-40s, I had been on a mindful healing journey for nearly a decade. I’d done the work. I’d faced old wounds, sought out professional help, and begun to find language for the things I used to bury. I believed I was past the worst of it. But then, out of nowhere, the cracks reopened.

It started when someone close to me was navigating a devastating trauma of their own. In trying to be there for them, I found myself sharing my story more openly with extended family for the first time. I thought I was ready. But things I thought I had put to rest came roaring back. The wound hadn’t healed – it had just scarred over.

It wasn’t the same as it had been in college. This was a different kind of rock bottom – high-functioning, invisible, almost convincing. I lived alone, worked remotely, and managed to show up just enough to keep the illusion alive. I was dressed from the waist up, hair in a bun, camera on for Zoom calls. I answered emails, hit deadlines, walked the dog, replied with exclamation points. And then I’d shut my laptop and eat whatever I could find, not because I was hungry, but because I was numb.

From the outside, nothing looked wrong. But inside, I was sinking. The house filled with unopened mail, untouched laundry, and a silence so heavy I could barely move through it. I felt completely alone but the stark reality is that nearly 1 in 5 women between 40 and 59 are currently experiencing symptoms of depression. That’s more than any other age group, according to the CDC. And honestly, it makes sense. For a lot of us, it’s a mix of things – unresolved trauma, shifting hormones, caregiving demands, loneliness, health changes, career fatigue, or just the quiet exhaustion that builds from spending decades holding everything together. It’s not one thing. It’s the slow build of everything.

And while I was no stranger to darkness, this relapse shook me. It reminded me that depression isn’t something you cure. It’s something you learn to live with. Something you manage. For me, it’s required ongoing attention and lifelong care, just like any other chronic condition.

The Friends Who Get Loud When You Get Quiet

As I found myself right back in the darkest place I’d ever known; I was closer than I’d been since college to planning my end. The thought of disappearing didn’t scare me, it felt like relief. I didn’t expect to end up there again. I thought I was past it. But depression doesn’t keep score, and healing doesn’t make you immune to setbacks.

This part still haunts me: women between 45 and 64 make up more than 30% of all female suicides in the U.S. – the highest of any age group. It’s not just a statistic; it’s a reality I came dangerously close to becoming part of. I would have been just another woman who faded quietly, behind the mask of high-functioning survival. But one person noticed. One person reached out. One voice cut through the silence and said, I see you.

A dear friend, someone who had walked beside me for years saw the signs. They didn’t wait for me to ask for help. They didn’t need a breakdown or a confession. They got loud when I got quiet. And that act saved my life. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t a formal intervention. It was timing. It was refusing to let me disappear. It was the kind of presence that reminded me that I was still here. And that maybe, I was still worth being here.

Radical Healing

With their support, I made the hardest decision of my adult life. I stepped away from the career I’d spent years building. I booked a solo trip to the Caribbean. I unplugged from the world. And then I committed to the most intensive healing retreat I’d ever experienced. This wasn’t about wellness. It wasn’t a break. It was a reckoning.

I entered that retreat with no makeup, no answers, no armor. I was cracked wide open. I cried. I raged. I grieved. And for the first time, I didn’t try to put myself back together quickly. I let myself sit in the undoing. I let the pieces fall where they may. Because I wasn’t trying to rebuild the old version of me — I was trying to become the person I was always meant to be.

Since then, life has looked very different. There’s more stillness. More gentleness. More discernment. I no longer mistake productivity for worth. I no longer need to be the best at everything to feel valid. I’m making plans again – not out of pressure, but out of possibility. There are still hard days. But now, the hard days don’t consume me. I have the tools, the language, and the support to move through them. I’ve stopped living for appearances. I’ve stopped shrinking to be palatable. I’ve stopped apologizing for needing time, space, solitude, slowness.

I’ve learned to dream again. That’s what those small glimmers look like now – not perfection, not immunity from pain, but presence. The ability to stand in my story and say: I lived through it. And I’m still becoming.

If You’re In It Right Now

If you’re here, really here, reading this because some part of it sounds familiar, I want you to know something: You are not broken. You are not weak. You are not alone.

Depression can make everything feel heavy. Even the smallest tasks. Especially the smallest tasks. I’ve had days where brushing my teeth or putting on clean clothes felt like a win. And if that’s where you are right now, I need you to know, that still matters. You don’t have to overhaul your life to start moving forward. You don’t have to find the perfect routine or wait until you feel strong. Sometimes, the path out begins with the smallest act of courage, what I now call microbravery. Microbravery is the practice of taking small, intentional acts of courage – especially in moments when fear, doubt, or shame tells you to hide.

And those small acts? I see them as Seeds of Becoming – tiny, consistent choices that don’t look like much in the moment, but over time, begin to shift something deep inside you.

Put your feet on the floor.
Wash your face.
Drink a glass of water.
Open a window.
Respond to one message.
Step outside.
Say no.
Say yes.
Say nothing at all – but stay.

Each one is a seed. Each one matters. And they add up. Not all at once, but slowly. Quietly. In your time. There’s no one way to heal. There’s only your way. And you get to decide what that looks like.

Does This Sound Like You?

If some or all of my story feels familiar to you or reminds you about someone you care about, please don’t wait. You don’t have to hit rock bottom to get help. If you call or text 988 you’ll reach someone who’s there to listen. No judgment. No pressure. Just support.

And if you’re looking for something longer-term – especially as a woman navigating midlife and all the layered emotions that come with it – that’s why I created OakRoot HX. It’s a space where healing, growth, and connection come together. A space where you can drop the act. Where you’re met with care, not judgment. And where you don’t have to do any of it alone.

You’ve made it through every impossible day so far. You’re still here. That matters.

And just by being here, you’ve already planted the first seed.