Just a few weeks ago, on a random Tuesday—the Tuesday after my 44th birthday—I was plunged into something I never expected.

It came suddenly. The morning began as usual, but then a hot flash ran through me. I’ve rarely had those, and it unsettled me.

Within 36 hours, I was in my closet—shutting the door, shutting out the noise, trying to quiet a body and mind that no longer felt like my own. Anxiety was coursing through me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I didn’t feel like myself. And if I wasn’t me, then who was I?

Anger began gnawing at me, leaving me on edge, ready to snap—something I don’t normally do. The moment came at the cat. My daughter looked at me, bewildered, and asked softly if I was alright.

From there, the darkness closed in tighter each day. Not like a blanket of comfort, but like a cloak of pain. My mind wanted out. I couldn’t understand how I could go from caring about my children and my life to suddenly not caring at all—wanting only relief.

Every task felt like pushing a boulder uphill. The smallest chores became monumental. The future shrank until there was no room left for hope. At times, it felt like desperation—desperation to escape my own body.

There were searing headaches. Waves of nausea after eating. Moments of fog where my thoughts dissolved and I couldn’t think clearly.

And layered over it all was shame.
Shame for not being able to push harder.
Shame for needing rest.
Some days I would crash into 2–4 hour naps, something I had never done before.

But in the middle of that shame, I also understood something: I needed to practice compassion with myself on a level I had never reached before.

That’s part of why I’m writing. Because I know others are suffering too. And when we are contracted—folded inside ourselves, small, convinced we have nothing left to give to others because we feel we have so little for ourselves—the place to begin is with great gentleness.

I’m practicing that now. Moment by moment.

The Weight of Depression

From my perspective, depression feels like loss.

Loss of joy.
Loss of vision and hope for the future.
Loss of vitality and energy.

Sometimes it comes through hormonal changes like peri- or pre-menopause. Sometimes it’s a physiological shortage of neurotransmitters like serotonin and dopamine. Sometimes it’s trauma, or the loss of someone or something you love—a partner, a friend, a pet, a job.

And then there’s the loss of hope itself—the loss of what could have been.

What makes it even harder is that depression is often tangled with shame. People don’t want to talk about it. Yet no one chooses this darkness. Everyone I’ve known who suffers from it is trying—often trying harder than anyone can see. But the weight of being stuck sets in, and hopelessness follows.

When I first began experiencing this, I confided in a dear friend. We’ve shared so much over the years, so I was surprised when her response was:

“Well, this world is difficult. Maybe you just don’t have what it takes.”

I think she meant to be motivating, but it landed as the opposite. I replied,

“You’re right. I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to feel this way, so I guess I’m not strong enough.”

In that moment, I wanted to close up. To stop sharing. I didn’t want to hear another round of “just think positive” or “go outside and exercise.”

My depression was brought on by a huge hormonal shift in my body. I had even tried to embrace it with optimism, telling myself I was stepping into my “silver” years of wisdom. I thought if I welcomed it fully, it would pass quickly, and I’d be back in step with a little hop and heel-click.

Instead, it brought me to my knees.

Why I’m Writing

Three weeks have passed since this began, and only two days ago I felt the first log shift in the jam—the first small movement of relief. Right now, I’m leaning on the tools I know, inch by inch, to pull myself forward.

What surprised me most is this: I teach meditation. I guide others through heartbreak and pain. And yet, here I was—swept into depression so deeply I couldn’t find my footing. It reminded me that none of us are immune to the breaking points of body, mind, and heart.

And when that first loosening came—when the contraction gave way, even slightly—I felt something unexpected: appreciation. I would not have said that in the first three weeks. But now, I can see even this darkness as a teacher.

Over the years, I’ve also walked this road with people very close to me—nursing them through nights of despair, through moments when they wanted to end their life completely. I’ve sat with doctors, waited on bloodwork, listened to pharmacists who specialize in neurotransmitters. I’ve seen small interventions bring real changes.

So while I’m not an expert, I know this path well enough to recognize what matters. What I’m offering here isn’t fluff. It’s what I’ve seen make a difference for others, and what I am practicing myself right now.

Maybe you’re here too. Maybe you’ve lost hope. Maybe silence feels safer because you don’t think anyone would understand. Or maybe you’re watching someone you love go through it and don’t know what to say.

If so, hear this: you are not alone.

I’m not on the other side yet. I’m inside it—practicing what I’ve taught, reaching for the light thread by thread. And my hope is that something I share might give you even a flicker of hope too—part the clouds for a moment, let in a little breath, a little relief, a little light.

In the days ahead, I’ll be sharing what I’m leaning on and exploring right now:

✨ Connection — the opposite of what depression makes us want, but vital.

✨ Physiology help — resources for neurotransmitter function and supplements that support the body.

✨ Meditation — my Method of Stillness, and other practices I’m exploring for depression.

✨ Purpose and vision — how to create even a small crack in contraction for light to enter again.

If you’re reading this and any of it resonates—if you’re in your own grief, loss, or silent struggle, or if you want to better support someone you love—I invite you to join me over the next few weeks. I will be sharing the tools I’m using and the practices that continue to help me find openings of light in the midst of contraction.