What Depression Taught Me

For the better part of the last year and a half, I was depressed. “But you’re a happiness expert…” you might say… how is it that you were depressed?” And I get it. It might seem contradictory… confusing, even. But the truth is, depression can affect anyone, even those who study and practice happiness for a living and as a way of life.

Depression has been one of the hardest teachers I’ve ever had. When I was in the thick of it, I wasn’t looking for lessons… I was just trying to survive each day. But as the fog began to lift, I could clearly see that it taught me things I couldn’t have learned any other way. Some of what I discovered surprised me, but mostly it confirmed what I’d always known deep down, only now I understood it in a deeper, far more lived and embodied way.

Here are some of those truths.

1. Depression isn’t anyone’s fault.

I’m a happiness expert and the author of a best-selling gratitude journal. I practice all of the things I share and teach. I reflect, I meditate, I journal. And yet, when depression came, it overtook me. All of my tools stopped “working” and it majorly humbled me.

That’s the physiology of depression. It doesn’t leave much space for your usual well-being tools and practices to have much of a profound effect. Anyone who’s been there knows this.

And so, depression reminded me never to blame someone’s depression on what they are or aren’t doing. Sometimes the brain and body are struggling in a way that has nothing to do with effort or mindset. Always and especially in these times, we need compassion, not shame or criticism, both from ourselves and from the people in our lives.

2. When your supports stop working, you meet your raw self.

Without the scaffolding of my usual supports (yoga, meditation, journaling, hiking, dancing, etc), I was forced to sit in the muck for longer than any part of me wanted. And, it’s what helped me create a deeper connection to myself.

There was a kind of surrender in this… realizing I couldn’t control everything (or anything, really). And that I couldn’t use sheer effort or will to get out of it. In that, the parts of me that constantly yearn to escape and avoid discomfort learned to not need to get out of the muck so quickly…. I learned at a deep physiological level that I could trust myself (and perhaps something larger than me)... that even in this “muck”, even in this horrible feeling, I was okay.

3. Small joys can be lifelines.

During the darkest of my depressive days, I couldn’t feel any joy at all, and I know many people in depression can’t. But here and there, on the lesser dark days, I would notice tiny flickers breaking through: the sweetness of my cat curled up against me, the sunlight shining into the living room and across the floor, the feeling of moving my legs while taking a walk even though everything in my body felt so heavy.

These flickers didn’t fix anything and they certainly didn’t cure the depression, but they reminded me there was still something good in the world, even if I couldn’t fully feel it right now. They were little breadcrumbs that reminded me of what was also true. There was deep depression and there were also small joys peeking out.

4. So can self-compassion.

If I grew in any quality while deeply depressed, it was self-compassion. Many nights I lay there deep in tears, curled into a ball, crying boundlessly, and all I could do was put a hand on my heart as I so often have, and try to send the message to my struggling parts that “I’m here”.

When nothing was working, that simple gesture of my hand on my heart meant everything. It reminded me that no matter how horrible things felt, I was still there for me. Even if I couldn’t fully feel it, there was love there coming from me to me that didn’t fade when the depressive feelings came.

Self-compassion was the only thing that worked, and it was everything.

5. The body holds so much wisdom about pace.

Depression forced me to slow down, to do far less than I thought I “should,” and to listen to what my body could truly handle. My body knew the pace I needed, even when my mind resisted it.

And because I needed to slow down and do less, it brought me face-to-face with the parts of me that have resisted slowing down at all costs for decades - the parts of me who are afraid of falling behind or not achieving or being enough. Sitting with them (in other words, letting myself feel the feelings without needing to fix them) wasn’t easy. But it was and continues to be very healing, because beneath their fear has always been a longing: to be safe and secure enough to rest and not hustle so much once and for all.

6. The nervous system is a sacred thing to honor.

What was really clear to me in my experience of depression was how primarily physiological it felt. There was no big grief or life event that preceded it, and I wasn’t consistently plagued by a barrage of negative thoughts before it came. Rather, I was simply and all of a sudden in a very different physiological state than I had been in... A full-body low... deeply sad, lacking any energy, and uninterested in and unmotivated to do the things I’d once enjoyed.

That gave me immense awareness of and compassion for how our nervous systems can hijack our thoughts, actions, and reality in seconds. And, it gave me immense compassion for myself, for others, and for the invisible struggle so many of us go through. The bravery it takes just to keep showing up, to keep reaching for something that feels better when our brain and body are in this kind of state… it’s incredible.

7. Healing is both physiological and psychological.

Depression reminded me, very viscerally, that mind and body are not separate… and that healing therefore isn’t just a psychological journey (through therapy, coaching, etc.) but very much a physiological journey too. After all, it’s only silly western medicine that continues to separate our mind and body!

It was clear to me that the depression I experienced was deeply physiological… not just cognitive or emotional, but hormonal, cellular, and rooted in my nervous system and body chemistry. And so, in my case, healing came not only from ongoing therapy, self-reflection, and (re)alignment with my values, but also very much from physiological supports and nervous system regulation. I needed all of it. Because sometimes your brain chemistry, not your thinking mind, is the storm, and real healing often requires tending to both.

8. Depression exaggerates, but it doesn’t invent.

While depressed, I felt much more easily triggered. But, the feelings weren’t new revelations. They were a familiar heaviness that consisted of old longings and wounds I’d felt around some of my friendships and family relationships, just magnified by physiology… hormones, nervous system shifts, exhaustion… not created by it.

Real longings and fears already in me kept arising like a deep desire to live a truly authentic life, a longing for true, aligned connection, the fear of not using my time well in this one and precious life we get. Depression didn’t make those up. It just turned up the volume. And in doing so, it asked me to listen closer and better. With the volume up so high, I couldn’t ignore those inner longings and messages anymore.

Depression exaggerates, but it doesn’t invent. It often amplifies a deeper truth.

9. Supporting someone through depression is unlike any other support.

While depressed, I learned a lot about what it’s like to support someone in this deeply delicate and vulnerable state. I was the one in the muck and I could feel so clearly what felt supportive and what didn’t.

I’m not typically someone who doesn’t reach out for support, but the physiology of depression made it hard to do so. It’s not that I didn’t want support, but I couldn’t access my usual capacity to ask for it.

And so, my greatest support came from friends who were relentless in reaching out even though I wasn’t… people who kept texting and calling anyway and who were okay sitting with me in the muck of it all without needing me to be less negative, more hopeful, or more optimistic. They didn’t buy into the illusion that I didn’t need help and they didn’t try to force me to fix something that felt unfixable. They just stayed close. And that meant everything. These friendships are some of my dearest and they deepened in ways I’ll never forget.

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Writing this, I find myself a bit torn. In some ways, I wouldn’t wish depression on anyone. It stripped me bare in ways I never wanted or asked for. And yet, in other ways, I would never take it back. Because it also softened me. And it taught and reminded me what’s real: that my nervous system colors my world in major ways, that surrender can be strength, that healing happens through both body and mind, that my feelings are real, valid, and need to be honored, and that self-compassion and self-love are my superpowers in the darkest of moments and days. It showed me that my body knows my pace, that even tiny joys matter, and that even the most painful feelings often point us back to what we value most.

Depression didn’t just strip me. It softened me.

If you’re walking through depression right now, please know that you’re not alone and you’re not broken. And if you’re in a place where you can’t feel these words, that’s okay. Sometimes the only message you need in the moment is that getting through just this moment and just this day is enough. Be kind to yourself, because it's hard.

And if you’re friends with, supporting, or living with someone who’s currently depressed, know this: they may not reach out. Not because they don’t want to, but because they might not be able to. Keep gently reaching out if you have the capacity. Offer a listening ear, a reminder that they matter, and a knowing and hope that this won't last forever.

Every experience of depression is different. This was simply mine. Support may need to look different for everyone. So, if you’re walking alongside someone who's in a dark place, or you're navigating the dark yourself, please… get the (therapeutic, physiological, etc.) support you need as soon as you need it. I send you my love.