The Weight of Depression: My Struggle to Survive

For as long as I can remember, depression has been a shadow, following me wherever I go. As a kid, I went to therapy because I felt like I didn’t belong in this world. The world didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to disappear. And when I tried to talk about it, all I got were labels—"attention-seeking," "too emotional," "you just have an attitude." That’s what the therapist told me. But how can a kid understand that their pain is real when even the people who are supposed to help just tell them to get over it? It’s hard to talk about these things when everyone around you says they don’t exist.

As I got older, it didn’t get easier to cope, but sometimes it was manageable. Until I made a decision that I thought would change everything—becoming pregnant as a teenager.

My husband and I—we were young, dumb, and madly in love. But life doesn’t care how old you are or how in love you feel when you’re faced with the weight of a child and the reality of a future you’re not ready for. Then came postpartum depression, hitting me harder than I could ever imagine. I don’t even remember it being this bad with our second child, but that could have been because we were older, or maybe because I was better at pretending I was okay. The third came, and by then, we were in a more secure place financially, but the emotional chaos never stopped.

My depression was like a tide that came in waves, sometimes hitting hard, sometimes retreating, but never truly leaving. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to take me under when I least expected it. But nothing could have prepared me for what would happen this past year.

Mother’s Day. A day that was supposed to celebrate me, the mother of his children, became the day everything came crashing down. He accused me of things that cut to the bone, told me things I couldn’t even begin to process. And then, after I tried to end my life—when I was as broken as I’d ever been—he told me the truth.

He’d cheated.

Five years ago.

In that moment, I felt like my entire existence had been a lie. I had already been living with the weight of mental abuse, feeling like I wasn’t good enough, like I was never enough. But this… this crushed me. It shattered whatever was left of my will to fight.

I shut down completely. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t work, couldn’t function. I was numb. The weight of all of it—the depression, the betrayal, the years of pretending I was okay—was too much to bear.

But somewhere in the chaos, I realized something. I couldn’t keep letting other people determine my value. No one, not even the person I loved most, could take away my worth. I had to love myself more than anyone else ever could. So that’s what I started to do. I started putting me first.

He apologized, and we’re working on everything now—on rebuilding what was broken. But the most important thing I’ve learned is this: healing is something you do for yourself, no matter who else is involved. And no matter how much love you think you have for someone else, it will never be enough if you don’t love yourself first.

Now, through open communication, we don’t argue as much. We don’t fight about the things that used to tear us apart. We talk. We listen. I’m working on me, and he’s working on himself, too.

Depression doesn’t go away, but I’ve learned to live with it, to manage it, and to fight for my peace. And if you’re reading this, feeling like you’re drowning, know this: You’re not alone. You are worth more than the weight you’re carrying.

And you can make it out. One day at a time.