My last post here was in December of 2020. I would love to contemplate where the last 3 years of my life have gone, but there’s no use in that. Somehow, the days can feel incredibly long, but the years just keep flying by with incredible speed. We all know it. We all feel it. Here we are. 

A lot has changed in my life since December of 2020. One of the biggest, most profound changes is what has transpired within my nuclear family. 

This story is not 100% mine to tell, but I do have my own thoughts and feelings. I do have my own trauma and subsequently my own healing. One practice that has always helped me process various situations is writing. That is why I started this blog a billion years ago when blogs were “the thing.” But even if no one else ever read a word I wrote, I was able to get my feelings out, and for whatever reason, that has been very therapeutic. 

I am also fascinated by the human condition. I love learning and reading about people. I want to know their stories. I am genuinely interested in why people do what they do. I love connection and authenticity. I also have found myself in many situations where I would give anything to find just one person who has walked through what I have walked through. So maybe in sharing this, I can help someone, too. 

Below you will read a story about fabric and thread, but it isn’t about fabric and thread. It’s about me and someone that I used to know. 

A baby is born— 

A pristine piece of fabric comprised of many threads.

A thread from Mom. A thread from Dad. A thread from each grandparent, great grandparent, great-great grandparent, and even more threads from ancestors long ago. 

Fibers of varying colors and textures, uniquely and intricately worked together to create a woven masterpiece of cloth. 

New life.

Over time, the fabric will be altered, cut, transformed. It is inevitable. It is expected.

But the threads will remain intact. History, tradition, love, and loyalty inspire the threads to stay together no matter the shape or form of the fabric.

Time passes, and there’s a pull in One thread. One thread is more stretched and stressed than the others. Taut. It’s no longer moving in unison with the rest. Something is not right. Odd.

The fabric keeps evolving and changing. The threads keep showing up, too. Except One.

There’s a snag. There must be. You can’t see it, but it must be there. There’s no other explanation for the change in that One thread. Maybe a splinter or sharp edge nicked it, but that One thread is knotting up under the surface.

It starts small, but with time it gets bigger. It’s more obvious. Pronounced. When you run your hand over the fabric, you feel it underneath. What once was smooth, uniform, and predictable is now blemished and bumpy. What has happened?

Others are starting to notice, too. 

“Hey, have you seen this?”

”I didn’t know if you knew.”

All of a sudden, yet like a slow death — the pull, the snag, the knot — can no longer be ignored. The fabric can’t function as she should. Everything feels ugly, embarrassing, and unfamiliar.

That One thread must be cut loose, freed, released. 

Against all original wishes, hopes, and dreams, the One thread is removed. Both quickly and slowly. Both skillfully and crudely. Both meticulously and haphazardly. A paradox where somehow everything and nothing coexist. 

The One thread is gone — removed from its familiar casing within that fabric that has been one cohesive piece for almost 40 years. Now only emptiness exists in that space where he was. 

The fabric didn’t fall apart, but she’s different.

To most, she looks the same upon casual glance.

To few, she looks nothing like she did before.

But she didn’t fall apart. 

For the past several weeks, I have felt called to share some difficulties I have been facing. However, each and every time I have been inspired to write, I have felt discouraged, telling myself that no one wants to hear what I have to say…that what I feel isn’t important. That I shouldn’t let people know that I’m struggling.

This is the true battle between Good and Evil. Light and Darkness. God and Satan. God says to share my story. God says to bring it into the light. Ephesians 5:13 – “But everything exposed by the light becomes visible — and everything that is illuminated becomes a light.”

Satan, however, tells me to be quiet — further isolating myself and further sitting in darkness.

Well, get behind me, Satan. I want to be the light today.

We live in a world that is pumped full of fake. From beautiful, fully-filtered Instagram feeds to braggy Facebook posts dripping with cries for attention and calls for compliments – it is nearly impossible to get a read for what the Hell is really going on out there.

I am confident in saying this because you bet your Photoshop that I, too, am guilty of posting only the moments of my life that are aesthetically pleasing. I take a photo with my iPhone and then lighten, brighten, tweak, and tone it until it looks worthy of likes and comments. I take selfies from flattering angles and only when my makeup looks just right, and that foodie-approved entree I’m eating at that cool restaurant? I’ll post a picture of that, too.

But a couple weeks ago, on a Monday, I didn’t leave my bedroom. Actually, I didn’t leave my bed. Aside from the few minutes I needed to get Leo up and down for naps and food, I didn’t move. I cried all day because I felt like a prisoner in my own body, mind, and home.

I wish I could say that was a one-time occurrence, but I have suffered several days just like that Monday over the past several weeks. I am consistently the last one awake in my house – fighting for every spare second of sleep. I spend hours crying each day, not really knowing why.

I am happily married and have been for almost 12 years. I have four amazing children, and I am blessed to be able to stay home with them. We live in the home of our dreams that we built from scratch. We go on vacations and frequent date nights. I go shopping at Target as a hobby.

My life, on paper (and Instagram), is as good as it gets.

But, I am battling depression.

Yes, battling.

Waking up everyday is a battle. Getting out of bed everyday is a battle. Showering? A battle. Brushing my teeth? A battle. Making small-talk and conversation so that people don’t suspect anything? A battle. Telling myself I am worthy of happiness and abundance, despite how shitty I feel? A battle.

I haven’t posted photos of that stuff on Instagram, but I have taken a few and this is what they would look like if they showed up on the ‘Gram.

No, depression isn’t funny. It is very real.

And we don’t talk about it.

If I talk about it, I will make people feel uncomfortable.

If I talk about it, people will think that I am a bad mother or wife.

If I talk about it, people will think I am ungrateful for all the good things in my life.

If I talk about it, people will want to run from me instead of run to me.

So instead, I will stay silent and suffer alone. Which will make it worse. I will never get better.

And as a result, all the other people around me who may also be secretly and silently suffering from their own mental battles will never get better either.

Today, I’m calling bullshit.

That internal dialogue is what the enemy wants me to think. Silence leads to isolation and isolation leads to darkness and darkness leads to that feeling of never ending loneliness and despair.

So I am sharing this struggle. I am bringing it to light so that it can be light for someone else. Someone else is reading this right now and feeling alone, sad, scared, and frustrated. Someone else is reading this and has tried to “shake it off,” “let it go,” and every other catchy Disney song to no avail. Someone else is reading this and is all too familiar with this battle and all the shame that goes with it.

In fact, according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, 16 million American adults live with major depression and 42 million American adults live with anxiety disorders.

That’s almost 60 million “someones.”

I am not alone and neither are you.

When we fall and break a leg, we seek treatment. We go to the doctor, we get x-rays, we get a cast, we take pain medicine. We also receive physical help, right? We get a reprieve from our daily chores and responsibilities. We are told to rest and heal.

Fill in the blank with nearly any physical ailment we have. We get help. We rest. We heal. We also typically do not feel ashamed or embarrassed to talk about what happened with our friends and family.

But when you struggle emotionally, there is this element of “personal control” that is implied. Like if you just smile more, you will feel better. Or if you go shopping, you will be happy. Or if you go out for a Girls’ Night, all your troubles go away. Or if you just count your blessings, you will feel more joyful. Or if you just tell yourself to get over it, you will be fine.

“Mind Over Matter” is a valid phrase – until the mind is what’s the matter.

I have been working with a therapist for nearly a year now, and it has been the single best thing I have ever done for myself, and I recommend it to anyone (truly, anyone and everyone on this Earth would benefit from it). However, I have still fallen victim to depression, despite my best efforts. This further solidifies to me that this isn’t something I can completely control…and fix… by myself.

As I navigate the next steps and work each day to get better, I pray that anyone else who is feeling this way is empowered to share their darkness.

Just like when we were children, everything is less scary once you turn on the lights.