Depression has a voice, and that voice is mine.
I have lived with depression for as long as I can remember. I remember climbing onto the roof of our house when I was around four years old and wondering, What if I jump? Even then, I carried a feeling that life had somehow already slipped away from me.
I spent most of my teens and early twenties running from my feelings—burying them, outrunning them, pushing away the people who saw my vulnerability. Some of them were the people I loved most, and I lost them anyway.
Then came my late twenties and early thirties. I dedicated those years to healing, convinced I was finally moving forward. Looking back, I don’t think I was healing at all. I think I was becoming numb – the epitome of depression. It’s highest order.
Today, the one thing that keeps me moving is my son. He is the reason I keep choosing tomorrow, even on the days when tomorrow feels impossibly far away.
Sometimes I imagine the women who came before me—my grandmother, her mother, and the generations before them—watching me with a knowing sadness. They are the women I once promised myself I would never become. Never silenced. Never controlled. Never broken.
Now I wonder if this is how it has always happened – the slow erosion of a woman’s spirit. You don’t have to chain someone whose will has already been exhausted.
This blog is where I leave the thoughts that are too heavy to carry alone.
Not because I have answers. And not because I have healed – I am far from that.
But because silence has never saved me, and perhaps these words will remind someone else that they are not the only one listening to depression’s voice.
The Momarchy 