This is my first time posting here, and even writing these words feels heavy.
Not because I don’t want to speak — but because I’ve spent so long believing that my pain was something I should hide, minimize, or carry alone.
Today, I’m choosing to be honest instead.

The last three years of my life have been hell.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just constant.
A slow, exhausting kind of hell that follows you everywhere — into your mornings, your nights, your relationships, your thoughts.

Depression didn’t arrive suddenly.
It didn’t announce itself.
It crept in quietly, disguised as tiredness, stress, “just a phase.”
And before I understood what was happening, it had already changed me.

It took the light out of my eyes.
I used to recognize myself in the mirror.
Then one day, I didn’t.
My eyes were open, but empty — like the person inside had stepped back and left the body behind to function on autopilot.

It took my joy, not just happiness.
The deep kind of joy that makes life feel worth participating in.

I used to love volleyball.
It gave me movement, purpose, grounding.
It was one of the few places my mind used to quiet down.
Depression stole that from me.
I could still show up, but I felt nothing.
No excitement.
No relief.
Just heaviness.

It took my relationship with food.
Eating became mechanical.
Taste faded.
Hunger disappeared.
Something basic and human was gone, and I didn’t even have the energy to mourn it.

Depression took my motivation, my focus, my creativity.
Simple tasks felt overwhelming.
Getting out of bed felt like negotiating with my own existence.
Every day felt like survival instead of living.

But what it really destroyed was my mind.

My thoughts turned against me.
The voice in my head became cruel, convincing, relentless.
It told me I was weak.
That I was failing.
That I was a burden.
That the world would be lighter without me in it.

And the most dangerous part?
Those thoughts didn’t feel like lies.
They felt logical.
They felt true.

Depression isolated me even when I wasn’t alone.
I felt separated from people by an invisible wall.
I could see life happening around me, but I couldn’t reach it.
I stopped planning for the future because surviving the present already felt impossible.

There were moments when I was so deeply tired — not physically, but mentally and emotionally — that I didn’t want to keep going.
Moments where disappearing felt easier than continuing to fight my own mind.
There were attempts that didn’t succeed.
And surviving those moments leaves marks — not just on the body, but on the soul.

I want to say something clearly, because this matters:
I do not blame my scars.

I don’t blame the marks my pain left behind.
At the time, I didn’t know another way to cope.
I didn’t have the tools, the language, or the safety to handle what was happening inside me.
Those scars are not attention-seeking.
They are not weakness.
They are evidence that I was trying to survive with the resources I had.

They are proof that I was in pain — not that I wanted to die, but that I didn’t know how to live with that pain yet.

Depression doesn’t just try to end your life.
It tries to erase your identity first.
It strips away everything that once made you you.

I am still here, but I am not the person I was before these three years.
And that loss deserves to be acknowledged too.

Today, I am different.
I am more cautious.
More aware.
Sometimes fragile.
I check in with myself constantly, afraid of slipping back into that darkness.

But I am also more compassionate.
More honest.
More capable of recognizing pain — in myself and in others.

I understand now how isolating this illness is.
How convincing its lies can be.
How hard it is to ask for help when your own brain tells you that you don’t deserve it.

That’s why I’m writing this.

I want to help the people who feel broken beyond repair.
The ones who feel like they are “too much.”
The ones who are functioning on the outside while collapsing inside.

If you’re reading this and see yourself in my words, please hear this clearly:
You are not weak.
You are not dramatic.
You are not failing at life.

Depression takes things that matter.
But speaking, writing, surviving, reaching out — those are acts of courage, even when they don’t feel like it.

I am not healed.
I am not fixed.
But I am still here.
And if I can still breathe, still tell the truth, still reach out — maybe you can too.

This is my first post.
This is my story.
And I’m sharing it because someone out there might need to know that even after so much is taken, survival is still possible. #MentalHealth #itsokaynottofeelokay #MentalHealth #depressionsurvivor