In my upbringing, having a parent with depression felt ordinary—almost expected. To me, it was just a part of life. I believed every parent shed tears alone at night, that all mothers experienced lengthy hospital stays due to mental health crises, or that it was standard for families to grapple with addiction issues. My reality was shaped by these experiences. Depression was woven into the fabric of our family life; we didn’t adhere to the typical calendar of weeks or holidays. Instead, I marked time by the cycles of my mother’s illness—her dark days and slightly brighter ones.
My childhood was filled with visits to doctors and a rotating array of medications that cluttered our kitchen counter. I attended AA and NA meetings, often distractedly coloring while grappling with the unsettling environment. My mother spent countless hours in her room, enveloped in silence, devoid of laughter, enthusiasm, or physical affection. It felt as if the vibrancy of life had been drained from her, leaving just a hollow version of the woman I once knew.
At 14, I was shocked to realize my experience was not universal after a visit to a friend’s home. I chose silence over honesty, not wanting to confront the harsh truth that depression had invaded our lives and mine as well. I often pretended everything was fine, suppressing the intensity of the struggles we faced due to this mental illness that I deeply resented, convinced I would somehow be spared its grasp.
Please forgive my earlier ignorance. I truly wanted to understand depression, yet I never felt its weight myself. I had been a silent witness to the turmoil it inflicted, but I hadn’t experienced the depth of its despair. The reality of being unable to care for your children, of self-harm as a means to cope, or the heartbreaking need for your child to parent you through another hospital intake was beyond my comprehension.
If my words seem critical, that’s not my intention. I simply cannot grasp the full scope of those emotions and experiences. For much of my life, I lacked empathy for my mother’s struggles, questioning why she couldn’t simply “snap out of it.” I often found myself frustrated with her inability to overcome the darkness that clung to her daily. I viewed her condition as a weakness—until the unimaginable happened: her depression took her life. In that moment, everything changed.
I regret the years I spent judging her so harshly, and I am deeply sorry for my lack of understanding. I realize now that withholding empathy is one of the most damaging things you can do to someone in pain. Perhaps my anger blinded me; even as an adult, I found it difficult to empathize with friends facing similar battles. I had sympathy, but it wasn’t the same. Brene Brown describes the distinction well: sympathy is merely feeling pity for someone else’s hardships, while empathy is a deeper connection, the shared understanding of their pain.
I reflect with discomfort on my previous mindset, realizing that if I mocked or dismissed mental illness, it somehow lessened its impact. But depression is not merely sadness; it is not a scene from a tear-jerking movie or a melancholy song played on a rainy day. It is, in fact, profound suffering—a relentless torment that attacks the mind in ways unimaginable to those who aren’t afflicted. We often expect individuals to simply overcome this all-encompassing pain, to carry on with their lives as if they had control over their suffering.
Imagine a long-healed wound that continuously oozes and hurts, regardless of the bandage applied. Sometimes, the pain is unbearable, forcing you to remain still, while at other times, you manage to move but only through a fog of discomfort. That’s the reality of depression. It’s a constant ache that may seem to fade but never truly disappears.
What I’ve come to learn about my mother and friends who struggle is that they aren’t just sad. It’s not merely a cloudy day they need to shake off. I deeply regret ever suggesting they should simply “smile more.” I wish I had shown more compassion and understanding, especially toward my mother, who certainly could have benefited from more empathy during her darkest times.
To those who find themselves in a similar struggle—who are battling their own pain, who cry themselves to sleep, or who find it challenging to face the new day—I am truly sorry. Your suffering is valid, and I won’t attempt to fix or trivialize it. I won’t offer unsolicited advice on how to be happy. Instead, I want to stand by you in silence, to share your grief, and to remind you of your strength whenever you need it.