I don’t think people understand how quiet it is. How ordinary it can look from the outside. They see an image and make sense of it quickly. They decide who they think I am in that moment and move on. They don’t see what it costs to stay upright. They don’t see the constant internal effort to appear okay when something heavier is pressing from the inside.
Depression doesn’t always arrive with a reason. Sometimes nothing has gone wrong. Sometimes life is stable. And that almost makes it worse. There is nothing to point to and say, this is why I feel this way. It just shows up anyway. Settles in. And I’m left trying to carry it quietly so I don’t worry anyone or become a burden.
When it’s here, I’m not looking for sympathy. I don’t want people to tiptoe or soften their voices. I’m just exhausted. Not in a way that sleep fixes. Exhausted from holding myself together. From trying to be the version of me that fits. There are moments when I don’t want to feel hopeful or reflective or strong. I just want to stop feeling altogether and sleep for days.
Winter makes it harder. It always has. Something about the world going quiet and bare gives the depression more room to move. The landscape empties itself. Trees stand stripped and exposed. The sky hangs low and colorless. The world grows quieter, not peaceful but hollow. That is when the depression slips closer. Not like a crash. Not all at once. It moves like a thief that knows the house well, stepping softly through rooms it has visited before.
It doesn’t rush. It takes pieces of me slowly. My energy goes first. Then my ability to enjoy things. Then my confidence in who I am. I start second-guessing myself constantly. I look at my reflection. I feel disconnected from it. It’s like I’m watching myself from a slight distance. I can’t quite step back in.
And then the voice shows up. Calm. Convincing. It tells me I am not enough. That something is missing in me that everyone else can see. That I will never meet expectations, I didn’t even know I was failing. It tells me I am too much, and in the same breath, somehow still never enough. It smiles as it speaks. It is patient and cruel. It whispers that I am too much while insisting I will never be enough at the same time.
This is the darkness people don’t always understand. Not sadness exactly, but erosion. A steady wearing down of the self. A voice that insists I am broken in ways that can’t be repaired. That eventually, people will see it too. That they will grow tired. That they will leave. And the most frightening part is how believable it sounds when the world outside is frozen and dim and still.
When it’s bad, it feels like being pulled under cold water. There is no splash. No dramatic moment. Just a tightening in my chest and the sense that everything is getting farther away. It feels like falling into a rabbit hole I didn’t see coming. The more energy I use trying to climb out, the deeper it feels. The harder I fight it, the further away the light seems. Even effort starts to feel dangerous, like struggling only exhausts me faster and leaves me further from the surface.
Depression grips my mind with long, gnarled fingers. It is merciless and sadistic. It drags me toward a depth where everything is quieter, heavier, harder to reach. Even hope feels distant there, like light refracting through ice.
I fight it in small, private ways. By noticing the crunch of snow under my boots. I stand in the weak winter sun a little longer than necessary. That’s if the sun even decides to exist at all. By reminding myself that seasons pass, even when they feel endless. But some days, survival is all I manage. And that has to be enough.
I started this in April of 2024. I remember that clearly. The ground was thawing. The air felt softer. I truly believed the hardest part was behind me. Sometimes I write from that belief. It feels like I’ve crossed some invisible finish line. Then I realize later that healing doesn’t work that way. Winter reminds me. The darkness doesn’t ask permission to return. It just waits.
At night, I don’t need sleep music or guided breathing or anything trying to fix me. The most rhythmic, soothing sound is his heartbeat. Steady. Present. Real. I press close and let my body remember safety before my mind ever catches up. It grounds me in a way nothing else does.
During the day, what I crave more than anything is the sun. Not metaphorically. Physically. Desperately. I want to sit or lie outside and let it soak into my skin. I want to feel its warmth settle into my bones. I want to kiss it, caress it, let it touch me like it knows exactly where the darkness lives. It can pull something toxic out of me just by being there. Like light itself is medicine.
And then, without warning, it happens. One day, it’s just gone.
Not gradually. Not politely. It’s like a switch flips. I notice the smile on my face isn’t forced. It simply shows up. Laughter comes easily. My body feels lighter. There is a buoyancy in my step I didn’t realize was missing. I want to spin in circles and laugh. I want to feel bare grass beneath my feet. It’s like the earth is welcoming me back.
My physical therapist told me I don’t have a dial. I have a switch. That feels painfully accurate. My nervous system, my body, and my ADHD don’t do moderation well. It’s either nothing, dopamine-depleted, flat, and heavy. Or it’s everything at once. One hundred and fifty percent. All in. Full force. James has said for years that I move like a bull in a china shop, and maybe he’s right. When the light returns, it doesn’t trickle in. It floods.
And that’s the part people don’t always see. That I don’t linger halfway. That I don’t hover in gray. I fall deep, and I rise fast. Both are real. Both live in me. Neither cancels the other out. And maybe that is something not everyone can handle. Maybe I am too much. Right now, I am just waiting for the light to loosen its grip. I am waiting for the clamp around my neck to ease enough. Only then can I breathe again.
Perfectly Imperfect 
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