Business woman tired after a hard day's work and fell asleep at her desk

In the Mind of Someone With Depression on a Workday

I want to tell you about my day. There was nothing particularly special about today; in fact, today was like most of my days. I’d say five out of the seven days in a week, I have days like I did today. But, I want people to know about days like today because a lot of us (approximately 1 in 5) have them, but not a lot of us talk about them.

I want to change that. I want people to know they are not alone.

I’m about to take you through what a day can be like for a person with mental illness, so here we go.

I wake up at 7:35. I have to get ready for work, which begins at 9. I sit up in my bed, but it takes me a few minutes to gather myself.

Wow, I slept for 11 hours. What the hell is wrong with me?

I step out of bed and put my slippers on. I have trouble getting my foot in the right slipper. It takes two tries.

I walk to the kitchen to make coffee. I put in a new filter, add the coffee grinds, pour the water and turn on the machine. I forgot to put the pot in the coffee maker. I turn it off, place the pot where it belongs and turn it back on.

My God, I am an idiot.

I decide to take a shower while the coffee is brewing. On the way to my bathroom, I bump into the door frame. I try to brush it off but can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with me. I feel lightheaded. I feel disconnected from my body. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. I didn’t change my medications. I’ve been taking them as prescribed. I wonder what’s the deal but proceed to shower and try not to ruminate.

I get out the shower. I trip walking over to my closet but catch myself so I don’t hit the floor. I feel defeated. I tell myself I can’t do anything right. I feel hopeless. The day before, my gut was telling me to take today off. But I refused. While standing in front of my closet I quickly regret not taking the day off work. My thoughts begin to spiral into a negative whirlpool.


I don’t want to go to work today. I’m going to cry. I just know it. I knew I should’ve taken today off. But I can’t now. It’s too late. Should I call in sick? What would I say? I’d have to lie because I can’t say, “Sorry I can’t make it in today because I’m recovering from something that happened two days ago and I’m an emotional wreck. Apologies for the last minute inconvenience.” Yeah, that will go over well. What if I just didn’t show up? I could just not show up. And not call or text anyone. Then everyone will try to contact me, and they’d all be pissed. That would be bad. I would do something like that, though… I’m not doing that.

I get dressed, begin to walk to the kitchen, then run into my bedroom door. I keep going. I make it to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee. I toast a waffle and eat while watching television. Time goes by fast. I should have already been out the door. I gather my things but forgot where I put my sunglasses even though I had them a couple of minutes before. I find them on the kitchen counter. I almost forget my phone. I scurry to my room to grab it. I’m out the door.

God, I can’t do anything right.

I’m in my car, driving to work. Questions come pouring in.

How will I get through the work day? Why is this happening right now? What happened this week that could be making me feel this disconnected? Why do I still feel like I’m half asleep? What is wrong with me?

I’m halfway to work, but I pull over. I cry. I feel out of control of my mind and body. I feel like my brain and body aren’t mine.

I drive to work. I am in no shape to work so I do not clock in. I tell my coworker I need some time to gather myself together, and I go outside. I begin to cry again. The feeling of not being in control of my mind or body sends me into a slight panic.

I can’t call Mom because she’ll worry. I can’t call friends because they’re working. I’ll probably regret calling them anyway when I’m like this. Who can I call? Who should I call? Who can I tell? Who do I want to know about this moment right now? Who do I want to unveil my craziness to? Who do I want to talk to about my unexplainable and intangible pain?

I call my therapist and leave a voicemail. Within a few minutes she calls me back. She asks what’s going on. I explain for the past couple of days I felt weird. She said it may have to do with the difficult therapy session we had two days prior, and I agree with her. I tell her I don’t feel fully awake. I feel slow. I’ve been losing my balance, unable to focus and numb. She tells me to try and put my feelings in a box in the trunk of my car until the end of the work day when I can journal about it. I say I’ll try. I tell her I am scheduled to work a volunteer hotline shift tonight but am reconsidering. She advises me to cancel my shift tonight. She tells me to call her when I get off work and had time to journal about what’s been going on. I say OK.

I call the place I volunteer at and tell a staff member I’m sorry but I can’t work my shift tonight. I say I’ve had a rough week. I cry. I feel terrible. I feel worthless. I feel like I let them down. I’m always worried about everyone else but myself.

I am such a worthless soul. Get it together, Stacy.

I hang up the phone, dry my eyes underneath my sunglasses and make my way to the back door at work. A man passes me on the street.

I wonder if he thinks I’m crazy. He probably thinks I’m crazy because I am.

I walk into work, clock in, then stop to look at myself in the mirror.

I look terrible. You can tell I’ve been crying.

Great. I look like a huge baby. I’m so miserable. Damn, I look awful.

I leave the mirror and begin my daily tasks. I am silent. But the voice of depression in my head is not.

I begin to think about a nightmare I had two nights ago. I remember details. I was assaulted. I think about how I woke up sweating and breathing heavy. Then my brain takes off…

I feel unsafe. I am not safe here. How am I going to get through today? I feel so alone. I knew I should have stayed home today. Why can’t I just make it through one day normally? What is normal? All I want to be able to do is wake up, show up, and have an OK day without wanting to immediately retreat back into bed when the sun shines or the hours of 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. creep up. I hate those hours of the day. They make me so depressed. God, I hate the sun and this hot weather. I just want to make it through the day and feel safe. Not hide under the covers. What’s wrong with me? Should I tell someone what’s going on? What if I tell someone and they talk about me behind my back? What if I tell someone and they don’t care? They’ll probably think I’m being emotional. Should I tell them why I might be having such a hard time? This is hopeless. Talking is useless. Don’t say anything. Just don’t open your mouth. Nothing good has ever come from opening your mouth. Just work and go home and deal with it then. No one will understand. No one ever understands. No one will care. They have they’re own problems. I’m weird. I’m crazy. I’m sad. Why am I always sad? They’ll think I’m lying because they see me smile and laugh at work. How can I do both at the same time? Be sad and smile. Maybe I should journal right now as thoughts are coming to me.

I grab a pen and rip out some sheets from a notebook. I begin to write.

“I just took a Klonopin to try and calm myself down. I brought it to work just in case I’d need it. But by bringing it to work, did I perpetuate the need to take it? Did I create a situation where I felt I needed to take it, or did I handle the situation properly by planning ahead? Now I’m confused. I do feel calmer, but tired. I guess I did need it.”

I put the pen and paper in my shirt pocket. I continue to water orchids.

This day sucks. This day is difficult. I feel so heavy. The pain is heavy today. There’s so much shit to do at work today I didn’t know we had to do. People need things from me today.

I water another plant.

Should I ask to leave early? No, I can’t. Everyone needs me to help make stuff today. I wish I knew about this ahead of time.

I water another orchid.

It’s raining. I tune everyone out for the most part. I help make things for a wedding.

I journal some more.

“I’m really sad right now. A smile seems like such hard work at the moment. A smile would take so much energy, and I don’t have much. It would probably use what little I have left.”

I continue making things.

My hands are shaking. It’s hard to make things. I haven’t eaten yet, and I should, but I have no appetite.

Damn, they’re so much faster at making things than I am. I am a failure. I am terrible at my job. Am I trying too hard to make it too perfect? Am I spending more time on things than I should? Wow. They’ve made so many more than me. And they all look really good. Mine suck. I hate mine. Mine don’t look as good compared to theirs. I am really terrible at this. Should I take the Adderall my doctor prescribed? I wonder if I should try it out. It’s something I haven’t tried yet. Maybe it will work. I don’t know. What the hell am I going to do?

The end of the day is near. Two people leave. I stay with one other person. There is not much to do. I clean some buckets. I half-ass it and rinse them out with hot water. I sit down. I thumb through a magazine and wonder when the day will be over.

What’s the clock say? Ten more minutes. God, this is agonizing. Am I being a bitch? I feel like I am being a bitch. Everyone probably thinks I am being a huge bitch today. It’s really hard to hang on today. 

It’s 4 o’clock. I ask if i can leave. I can, so I do. I get in my car. I wonder how my boyfriend can stand to be with me.

Why does he love me? I’m so annoying. I’m so much to handle. I have so many problems. I’m always unhappy. How can he love me when I’m always sad? He probably doesn’t. He’ll probably leave me one day. I bet he’ll leave me one day. God, I can’t wait to get home. Man, this drive home is hard. I really need to concentrate and focus. Why can’t I focus on driving? I can’t believe I still feel out of it.

I park my car. I am home. I walk upstairs. I see all my plants.

They look so good. They’re all sprouting. Great!

I unlock my door, open and close it behind me. I drop my things on the kitchen floor. I start to journal.

“I am so tired. I am in my bed. I am typing. I usually hand write entries. God, I’m exhausted. I don’t feel like calling my therapist. I don’t have the energy to talk on the phone. If I was dead, this would be so much easier. It wouldn’t be anything at all actually. I wouldn’t have to do anything. I can just rest. I don’t feel like doing this anymore. I don’t feel like living my days this way. It’s exhausting. I really want to die sometimes. Man, this is one of those moments I really want to die. I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t think I want to keep going. I can’t handle this ride to hell any longer because that’s exactly what it is. I think I’m ready to give up. God forbid if I say this stuff out loud though. But, I am still typing this. I can’t tell anyone I am thinking this. I don’t want my therapist to send me to another hospital. I don’t want to be sent away. Sometimes I do. Should I go back? I wonder what would happen if i did. Probably cause more turmoil than I need. Man, it’s hard to hang on today. But writing this is helping a little.”

I text my therapist. I tell her I am home and I journaled but I am too tired to talk so I am texting instead. She responds and says she will be around tonight if I change my mind about calling.

“Here I am now. Still typing this. Taking it one second at a time. Because that’s all I can do. That’s all any of us can do. Take it one second at a time. If taking things one moment, one hour or one minute at a time is too much, then just take it one second at a time. Those seconds become minutes. Those minutes become hours. Those hours become days. Those days become weeks. Weeks become months. Months become years. And look at that. We’ve all survived another round.”

To this community, these people, everyone who struggles with mental illness: we are in this together. If this just helps one person, then it’s done its job. Do it for me, do it for each other, do it for yourself-take it one second at a time.

You are not alone.

If you or someone you know needs help, see our suicide prevention resources.

If you need support right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.



On the Days I Don't Like Me

I came to a realization today. I don’t like me.  

Let me back up. As a kid I was always happy, always engaged in the world around me and always ready to fling myself in a huge imaginary game with my brother. I was confident and quite well-spoken as a child. I lived. I lived with fervor. 

At some point in my late teens or early 20s, that changed. I can’t really pinpoint when, but everything became gray. The bright world around me slowly faded to a muted grayish fog. I lived in a sorority house at the time and I self-sabotaged. My depression knew it couldn’t win with a support group of 65 women. So it isolated me. I moved into this basement apartment with dark wood cabinets and dark brown carpet with hardly any natural light. I didn’t leave. I let my anxiety build booby traps for burglars. I piled fans in front of windows, moved chairs in front of doors and triple checked the locks. I shut the dark red curtains on the little light that seeped in and turned off the lights, so the only light was a violent flickering from the TV. Most nights I slept upright in an armchair facing the door.  

I had no appetite so I fed myself lies, like nobody loves you. Nobody wants to hang out.  Look, there’s nobody answering your calls. You’re worthless, you’re hated, you are not good enough. In reality, I had a bunch of people who loved me. Family, friends, sisters from the sorority I unceremoniously excommunicated myself from. They were just busy. Busy living the life I could have. Living without ever knowing I was suffering in my tiny little apartment in the dark. I never let them know how bad things really were.  

As I grew older I considered myself a fighter. A smart girl who wouldn’t let others hurt me. That life was a battle and I’ll do my damnedest to win. I would come to realize nobody was attacking me.  

Recently, my live-in boyfriend left town for a week. It was the first time I’d really been alone in over a year. Alone for more than a few days. Alone with enough time for my depression and anxiety to start filling my mind with lies again.  


When I’m wrapped in the darkness, I write. I’ve learned it lightens things for me. It helps make things a bit more manageable. My personal storm feels tangible and validated if I can capture my feelings long enough to wrestle them onto the page. While he was gone this is what I wrote: 

“Maybe I’m not depressed enough. Or anxious enough. Maybe I’m not Native enough.  Maybe I’m not Hispanic enough. Maybe I’m not smart or influential or kind enough.

But I often feel like I’ve had enough.  

I feel… 

My mind is dark enough. To send myself to bed for days. 

My chest is tight enough. To make me stumble walking down a hall.  

I’m “brown” enough for people to speak to me in Spanish. 

I’m “red” enough for other native brothers and sisters to ask who my people are.

I’m smart enough to know anxiety and depression are illnesses, not a defect. 

I’m influential enough to have young girls be inspired by my passion for the sport I love. 

I’m kind enough to not correct you when you tell me none of these are something I have enough of.

I sent this to my cousin, who struggles like I do. She told me whoever is telling me I am not good enough is full of it. That I’m better than good enough, and that individual needs to be cut from my life before their darkness bleeds into my heart.  

I thought about it: Who are these people who are telling me I’m not enough? Who do I need to release in order to release my own mind? Who do I have to stop being “kind enough” not to correct?  I didn’t like the answer I came up with.  

It was me. I don’t think I’m enough. I know now I don’t like me.  

But I also know inside my head lives a liar. This liar is sometimes booming, and sometimes whispering. This liar can ready me for a fictional battle (I always had such a great imagination). Or this liar can speak so softly to me I don’t even notice the damage it has done (this liar is a special kind of scary).

So I’ve come to this: I don’t like me. There’s a part of me that doesn’t like the person I am.  A part that cannot accept I am good enough.  

But that’s OK because the bigger part thinks I’m everything; and that’s the part that will win. 

Most days.

The Mighty is asking the following: For someone who doesn’t understand what it’s like to have your mental illness, describe what it’s like to be in your head for a day. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

A depressed male teen with his head in his folded arms and outlines of his parents hands on his back

5 Things I Wish I Hadn't Forgotten in the Midst of Depression

When I’m depressed, it’s sometimes easy for me to forget some things worth remembering. So, here are some reminders if you find yourself in the midst of depression:

1. Depression lies.

Depression tells you that you are worthless, unwanted and not needed. Depression tells you that you would be better off not being here, and you start to believe it. Depression backs you into a corner, and puts you in a dark, dark place. You no longer see good things in the world, you no longer believe good things still happen. You don’t see the beautiful things, and you don’t believe any goodness in yourself still exists. Depression alters  your perception of life hugely.

Please remember: Depression lies. You are not worthless. You are wanted. You are so needed in this life. Good things are still there, and still happening, it’s just hard for you to see this right now; but that’s not your fault. You are so worthy, you are always needed. You are still good, and you are enough.

2. Depression does get better.

When you’re in the middle of it, it doesn’t seem like life can ever get better. You don’t feel like life will ever change. I understand right now you don’t want to carry on. I understand right now you feel like it couldn’t possibly ever get better. But it does get better, life does change. I know you are struggling. I know this is so hard to do. But depression does ease up. I believe in you. You can do this.

Please remember: Depression does get better. It can take time, and a lot of work, but you will feel well again. You will feel like you again.

3. You are strong enough.

Depression might tell you that you aren’t strong enough, but believe me — you are. You can do this. You can get through this. Depression will grind you down until you think you have lost all hope. You think you’ve got no fight left, and that it’s easier to give up. But you can do this. You are strong enough. You do have the strength. It’s deep inside of you, you might not be able to see it right now, but it is there, I promise you it’s there.


Please remember: You are strong enough. You are so strong, stronger than you’ll ever know.

4. Never feel guilty for how you feel.

Depression is not your fault. You did nothing wrong. It is perfectly acceptable to feel the way you feel. You did not bring this on your self. You did not do anything to deserve to feel like this, and I am sorry you do feel like this. But you are not guilty of doing something wrong. You are entitled to your feelings.

Please remember: It’s OK to not feel OK.

5. Depression is not just feeling sad.

When medical professionals speak to you about depression they often ask if you feel sad, or if you have thoughts of suicide or self-harm. But depression can be any number of feelings. Depression can be sadness, guilt, anger, fear, worthlessness, loneliness and exhaustion. Depression can also leave you feeling empty. Completely, absolutely empty. And often, it can leave you feeling absolutely nothing at all. Almost numb. When I’ve spoken to medical professionals about feeling absolutely nothing, some have been confused. But sometimes, feeling nothing can be as bad as feeling everything. Depression is not just feeling sad. Likewise you do not always have thoughts of self-harm either, but this doesn’t mean that you don’t require a little help.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Please remember: You are worthy.

The Mighty is asking the following: Create a list-style story of your choice in regards to disability, disease or mental illness. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

A color drawing of a woman

To My Sister With Depression: I See You

You suffer from an invisible illness others closest to you can’t — or don’t want to — see. Depression causes you unseen pain and tortures you from the inside out. Your body hurts and your mind is tired and sometimes you just want to quit, and that’s hard for others to understand. But I promise I will try to understand, and try to help you through this. I see you, and I see you’re hurting.

I see you’re lonely, but you are not alone. I am here, and will not leave until you ask me to. What can I do to help? I can offer a listening ear, a hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on. I can show you funny YouTube videos to make you laugh, or encourage you with my favorite uplifting quotes from Pinterest. If you don’t want any of that, if you don’t want to talk, that’s OK. I can make you a cup of tea, turn on Netflix and sit here quietly. But I’m still here.

I see you doubting yourself, but please don’t. You are my sister and part of my heart. You matter, and how you feel is important. You are not unlovable, you are not unwanted. I know you feel like that right now, but that’s the depression talking. You are loved, you are wanted and your life is valuable. You are important to me, and what you’re feeling is valid.

Please don’t doubt yourself; you are loving, you are kind and you are beautiful, whether you are depressed or not.

I see that it’s hard for you to get out of bed today, and that’s OK. But when you do get out of bed, celebrate. It’s the small victories that will help you get through this. Taking a shower and doing the dishes seem daunting, I know. Take your daily tasks one step at a time. Do you need help? Let me do the dishes. Tell me what else you need me to do today. If you need me to, I will encourage you to stay out of bed. If you want to stay in bed today, that’s OK, but try and get out of bed tomorrow.


I see you blaming yourself for how you’re feeling, but it’s not your fault. You’re not choosing to be depressed, depression has chosen you. Being depressed is kind of like having the flu. When you’re sick, you forget how good you felt before. When you’re depressed, you forget what it’s like to be happy. But just like the flu, you will feel better. If you take your medicine, take care of your body and let others help you, you will feel better.

I see you calling your depression a weakness. Depression is not who you are. You are strong, probably stronger than you think, and you are a fighter. All fighters need someone in their corner, and I will be that for you. I will be here to remind you that you are not weak, and help give you the strength you need to fight through this.

During the times you feel small and unable to be seen, I want you to know I see you, and I see your pain. I care about you, and will be with you through this. When others don’t want to listen, I will. When others don’t want to understand, I do. You can look to me for encouragement, comfort and kindness while depression has you in its hold. I will do whatever you want, and whatever you need to help you feel better. You are not a burden, and you won’t push me away by feeling how you are feeling. You are the fighter, and I am your coach, ready to get you through this, but not to rush you. Take your time in feeling better, take care of your body and your mind. If you need me, I will be here, and when no one sees you, I see you.

The Mighty is asking the following: Write a love letter to another person with your disability, disease or mental illness. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.
Portrait Of Romantic Couple Toasting Red Wine At Dinner

4 Things I've Learned About Dating While Living With Depression

Hi. My name is Ros. I love the food channel, Paulo Coelho is my favorite writer and I’m a fan of the Harry Potter series. I’m a strict vegetarian, I dabble in yoga (frequently)… and oh, I have depression.

That’s not how I introduce myself, but it is what I thought of saying when anyone asked me if and why I was single. When you have a mental illness, dating can be somewhat tricky. You’re not sure if you should tell the potential suitor on the first date or wait a couple of dates. You’re afraid of how they may react. In most cases, you want to run back into your cave and never come out. At least that’s how I felt.

About two years ago I found myself dating a medical student. I was excited because I thought I may have found someone who understands and can handle the reality of being with someone who has depression. That wasn’t the case. After telling him my diagnoses and the potential pitfalls we may have in future, he told me he doesn’t believe depression is a real medication condition. The relationship ended shortly after that.

This is not to say depression was the cause of the break up. Rather, it was my failure to understand my condition and what it means when entering a relationship. Below are a few things I learned from the last two years of trying to date when living with a mental illness:

1. Date for the right reasons.

There’s this void those with a mental illness know well. It seems to eat us from the inside, and so we try and fill it with anything we can find. Some resort to food, others to exercise, and many use other people. I, like many people, resorted to using others by entering the first thing that resembled a relationship. The relationship was not a healthy one, but I was too afraid of getting out. I was afraid I wouldn’t find someone else who could love a mess like me. I began to convince myself this was the best I could get.

That is the danger with failing to enter relationships for the right reasons. You begin to believe you are deserving of less because you have depression — and thus tolerate anything that might come along with the relationship.


2. Be open about your illness.

I’m open about my struggle with depression (hence the blog) but found it difficult to be vocal about it with someone I liked. Saying it out loud around them felt like being diagnosed all over again. But if this person is someone you plan to be with for a long while, you have to allow yourself to be in that position of vulnerability. I realized this with my current partner. He found out about my depression on my blog and asked about it when I least expected. I then had to make the decision whether I would underplay my depression or tell it like it is, especially on bad days.

Not everyone will appreciate your openness, but those worth your time will.

3. Don’t be offended when they ask questions.

Most people only know about depression from what they see on TV. You are probably the first person they know on a personal level who has the illness, and you are nothing like what media has told them people with depression are like. They may want to know what sets you off or what you are like when you have an episode. They will want to know how long episodes last and what you do to get out of those episodes. Theses questions are not to irritate you. These questions allow them to form a basis on how best to support you when you need them the most. So be open and honest when they ask questions.

4. Be open to support.

It’s difficult for me to say I need help. Most of the time I feel like I’m burdening someone else with my sorrow. Some days I convince myself depression is a contagious disease, that I will spread it to others when I talk about it. But I soon realize it stems from my fear of being vulnerable. I’ve learned it’s OK to be vulnerable when in a healthy relationship. It’s perfectly normal to ask for help and to receive help even when you didn’t ask for it. Those around you see your distress and your pain, no matter how hard you try and mask it. Allow them to love you by helping in anyway they know how.

The Mighty is asking the following: Create a list-style story of your choice in regards to disability, disease or mental illness. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

The back of a woman's head standing on a side walk

To My Doctor Who Said, 'Well, You Don't Look Depressed...'

I guess I’m one hell of an actress then.

I’m not quite sure what depression is supposed to look like, but I do know how it feels. It’s
like a nightmare you can’t wake up from, and it generally gets worse before it gets better.

An estimated 350 million people worldwide live through this ongoing nightmare every
day, yet it is the loneliest illness a person can face. And when your own physician downplays your unhappiness, the lonely cause isn’t helped out one bit.

I have been suffering from depression before I even knew what depression was, but I had only talked to my doctor about it for the first time a few months ago. There I was, a 19-year-old high school graduate, in my pediatrician’s office, sitting on an uncomfortable Sesame Street themed bed, awkwardly trying to explain to her how I had been feeling for the past several weeks (for the past several years). What she had to say in return was quite discouraging:

“Well, you don’t look depressed…I’ve had patients come in here and not even make eye contact with me. They just lay on the bed, barely saying a word and I usually do all of the talking.”

Eight years of barely saying a word. Eight years of just laying on my bed at home, praying my bad thoughts would disappear and never return. I finally built up the courage to talk to you, a doctor, about how I have been feeling and you have the nerve to say to me I don’t even look depressed. I’ve had time to practice, to put my makeup on and fake a few smiles. Of course I don’t look depressed. Just because I don’t fit the stereotype of what a depressed person should be, doesn’t mean I do not suffer. That doesn’t mean I cannot suffer. And it doesn’t mean I suffer less — or more — than anyone else.

Although I may have received more help from my own online research than my actual doctor, I do not regret for one second openly talking about my depression and learning how to properly manage it. I’ve learned that depression is not who I am. It is not my label nor my identity. It is only a small part of me, like anything else.

To the other 350 million people out there, do not believe in those who criticize your sorrow. Do not trust in those who judge you and keep the stigma on mental illness alive. We didn’t choose depression, but we can choose how we let it define us, and how we let others define us, too. Remember that.


The Mighty is asking the following: Write a letter to anyone you wish had a better understanding of your experience with disability, disease or mental illness. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.


Real People. Real Stories.

150 Million

We face disability, disease and mental illness together.