Depression has been a silent shadow in my life. Sometimes heavy, sometimes barely visible, but always there. It’s the weight in my chest, the fog in my mind, the ache in my bones. It’s the exhaustion that sleep won’t fix, and the hollow feeling even when everything should feel okay. It’s more than sadness. It’s numbness. It’s guilt for not being able to “snap out of it.” It’s the quiet wondering if you’re ever going to feel like yourself again, or if you ever did. But here’s what I know now. Depression lies. It tells you you’re lazy, unlovable, or broken. But none of that is true. Through years of unraveling shame, surviving bad days, and holding on by the thinnest threads, I’ve come to know depression intimately. Not as a moral failure, but as a wound in need of care. If you’re tired, if you’re hurting, if you’re barely hanging on, I get it. I’m not here to push you toward false positivity. I’m here to sit with you in the real.