Originally written April 14, 2025 | Posted March 24, 2026

The Quiet Part Out Loud

Depression

“A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end.” — Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

The Truth

Sometimes, I want to die.

That’s the quiet part.

It’s always at night. When I’m alone. When the voices in my head get cruel, creative, and relentless. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?”, “You don’t deserve the life you’ve been given”, “You are an incredible burden to your family”, “If you weren’t here, it would be barely noticeable”. Those accusations plus more cycle through my thoughts, relentlessly. And in those moments, I’ll beg—pray, if we’re being loose with the word—not to wake up.

That thought, even now—when I’m not in the thick of it—still triggers a tidal wave of shame. Because I know what I have is amazing. My life? It’s abundant and incredible. And when I am not in a depression, I know I wasn’t “given” my life, but worked for it. I know I’m loved. I’m not alone. I have talents. I’m not broke. I have savings. I have a house. Some people enjoy my company. I would be missed. Some even find my ideas interesting, if a bit “out there.” I mean… I have a pool, for fuck’s sake.

But depression doesn’t care. It’s a liar. A master manipulator and an expert at gaslighting.

I’m about three or four weeks out from my last low. I’m hoping this is the sweet spot where I can write as a witness instead of a hostage. It’s close enough in my rear view that I still feel the weight of it, but distant enough that I can write without crumbling – although I have admittedly cried the entire time I’ve been writing this article. I’m not sad. It’s just raw for me, because there’s no filter.

Depression comes with intense shame. At least for me. Writing this feels like threading a needle underwater—slowly extracting details–with care–squinting into memory for clarity. It’s uncomfortable to go back, but important while I still remember the full breadth of the engulfing darkness and the depth of each shadow. I want a record. One I can reread. One I can learn from.

The Beginning

I’ve lived with depression for much of my life. I can’t remember exactly how it showed up in childhood, but I remember the fallout. I see it like a movie trailer on loop—sometimes quiet, sometimes destructive, always present.

I once ruined a family trip to Niagara Falls. I don’t remember exactly what I did. But I remember my family’s reaction. I’m pretty sure I was an asshole. Another time, I remember my mom—gentle, concerned—asking if I thought maybe staying with my aunt and uncle for a bit might help. I don’t remember what led to that moment, but I can still see her face, hear her voice, feel her fear. Not fear of me—fear for me. I see that now.

Then? All I felt was shame. I wasn’t “normal.” I wasn’t the “good” daughter I was trying so hard to be. She was being gentle, but the only words I heard were that of rejection. She didn’t know that was the story I would end up telling myself. She was desperately trying to save me, but I had already run away into my darkest and cruelest thoughts.

My dad was an alcoholic. He was the youngest of nine siblings, and had served as a Marine in the Vietnam war. After the service, he and my mom settled down, him a cook, she a nurse, and they bought a small starter home that they’d never move out of. I’m not sure when his drinking began, but, for the bulk of my childhood, booze was a big part of his life– and therefore ours. I became fluent in quickly assessing the temperature and tension of a room. A skill I think I still possess today. Then when I was in seventh grade, he quit cold turkey, worried he would lose his wife and kids–what he valued most in his life.

My dad wasn’t violent, but he was volatile and often depressed. While depressed, he’d say things that exposed his own self-loathing, cursing his lot in life, his own existence. When he had been drunk, he amplified these statements. When sober, he wasn’t as vocal, but the sadness and self-loathing persisted. Only I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t accept what he said. I hated him for saying it. Not because I didn’t love him—but because I couldn’t grasp how someone who was so deeply loved could be so sad. Didn’t he realize how fucking great his life was?

I was “technically” a good girl. So was my sister. We got good grades. We never got in trouble. We never skipped school. Didn’t do any drugs. My mom was so in love with him, she couldn’t walk by him without grabbing his butt or touching him in some casual way. A hug. A hand on his back. Our family loved out loud. What did he have to be sad about? I judged him for this. I saw his depression as a sign that we were not enough–his depression was in some way a repudiation of me. And for the rest of his life, it impacted how I saw him, how I interacted with him.

Now, I see myself in him. I look exactly like my mother, but inside is my father–his self-doubt, his disappointment, his struggles – although not as volatile. I talk to him often, a year and half after his death, and ask for forgiveness for never giving him grace. For never understanding. For never being curious enough to ask what he was going through. And I wonder, if I had, would it have made my life easier, would it have made his, if he knew someone he loved was also living with pain and shame. Could we have helped one another?

The Mask

I’m 54. Over the past 30 years, I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding my depression. Like, Oscar-worthy good. Until I turned 50, I doubt anyone would’ve guessed the depth of what I felt. I had no meds. No therapist. Just a firm belief that I could fix it myself. I couldn’t. I never could.

I was a workaholic. Projects were my Prozac. Deadlines gave me structure. If I stayed busy, I didn’t have to feel. If I was successful, maybe I was worth something–and others would clearly see that. Worth. That is what I boiled everything down to. What was I worthy of, and where did I come up lacking? My successes and failures were the evidence, right? A pretty simple formula in my eyes. Weekends were a mix of mindless numbing TV, fabricated work excuses, and guilt. Vacations? A blur of pajamas and shame for never getting off the couch.

Relationships – both platonic and romantic were a struggle. I didn’t know how to let anyone really see me. I tried to only show the best parts. The fun. The silly. The cheerleader. I would stop short of stepping into full vulnerability because deep down, I felt like I was damaged goods, and as soon as a friend or boyfriend discovered my truth, they would be out the door. So, I overcompensated. I tried to pay for everything. I talked about things nobody gives a shit about like my salary, and work successes. I tried to make it easy for others to love me by never letting them actually know me. When the relationships inevitably ended, I would sink into despair. And yet under that darkness–when I started to sweep some of the detritus away, there was a tiny kernel of relief. Relief to be able to drop my mask–at least temporarily.

The Descent

When I am sliding into a depression, I have tells. Like a poker player who might bite the inside of their lip slightly.

My curiosity goes silent. I stop asking questions and googling answers. I stop reading the news and only scan headlines, or I only watch shows I’ve seen hundreds of times. New ideas stop flowing, because I have shut down stimuli. Brushing my teeth becomes optional and pajamas my clothing of choice. My inner thoughts become less grateful and more accusatory. Hope slowly fades. Those are the signs I’ve learned I need to be alert to.

Sometimes it stops there—in apathy. Apathy is manageable. I think I have spent a good amount of time in apathy. I know the boundaries. But, other times, not often, but sometimes, the slide continues– further, deeper and darker, into self-disgust. Those are the nights I hope I won’t wake up. And if I descend further, I will get to a point when I pray not to.

Shame joins that party during that descent past apathy. Loud and obnoxious. Playing a reel of my lowest moments, flipping through my life like a carousel of cringe. Times I was needy. Desperate. Embarrassed. Times I’ve been despicable to friends, times I’ve ghosted them. Times I’ve ghosted myself. I have a reoccurring memory of begging someone I loved to take me back. I don’t know if that’s an actual memory or just something I use to torture myself. It’s vivid. I can see the hysteria on my face, I can practically feel myself desperately trying to cling to someone, I can hear this keening coming from me. Even if it’s false, its weight is an enormous anchor I I sink with during my most vulnerable states. I hate that person who begs. I show her no grace.

When Things Go Off the Rails

I turned 50 during the pandemic. Aside from the stress of the isolation I was also going through a break-up. My relationship ended—the healthiest one I’d had—and I couldn’t find my way out of the desperation and my staunch belief I had been unworthy of his love. And for the first time, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to “fix” myself, and finally, I asked my doctor for help.

Lexapro came first. Then came the cancer diagnosis.

Yep. Surprise subplot.

I spent the next year going through chemo, surgery and radiation. My approach was to just get through it in a “head down, what’s next” sort of way. After radiation, and all the bells had been rung, I was put on Tamoxifen and Lupron to keep the cancer at bay (my cancer feeds off Estrogen). Depression no longer presented as a slow slide, but instead, a precarious cliff I had been pushed off and was in a free-fall. I wasn’t numb—I was in complete despair. I could barely speak without losing my shit. I would cry uncontrollably for long amounts of time. I remember a colleague calling me about an issue at work that would be an easy solve. Instead of just saying “yes” which I ultimately did, I spent the next half hour re-thinking the entire conversation only focusing on areas where I came up short. How entirely unqualified for my job, I was. Queue the panic attack. I was eating everything in sight. My weight was skyrocketing. Apathy became a reprieve. It was the first time I worried about being a danger to myself. “Hoping” that I didn’t wake up seemed very far away from “praying” not to wake up. As soon as I recognized I had entered new territory and appreciated the nuance of that change, I stopped the Lupron injections. I accepted the potential risk of my cancer returning, because I wasn’t confident I’d be able to keep myself safe, if I continued with both medications.

Here’s the rub, though. I was only able to recognize this because I am 54. Because I have had decades of living with this. Experience has taught me, things will get better, and they always do. And they are better for the majority of my life. But it’s incredibly hard to know that when you are in it. I was able to get a little–very little–relief from stopping the Lupron. My oncologist and I became fanatical about my bloodwork and Estradiol numbers so I could be moved off Tamoxifen. Until then I would just white knuckle it. Towards the end of 2022, the wait was over, and my meds were reworked.

I didn’t think anything could be worse than 2022. Then 2023 showed up saying, hold my beer. My dad died. I lost people I loved. I lost my job. It was brutal. And I broke. I spectacularly broke. The only silver lining to 2023 was that I finally admitted I was not well. I put the job search on pause and started therapy. I adjusted my meds again. I stopped hiding. I stopped masking and started healing.

And I started building this—Happy What•Evs. Because if we’re going to survive the hard stuff, we’ve got to start celebrating the small wins that help get us there.

The Small Wins

Writing this post is a win. Writing it is the small win. Posting it will be a huge win. [fingers crossed]. I think posting represents “hope” that I can, and will accept my reality –to focus and celebrate growth as it happens.

I’m learning to recognize early warning signs, and ask better questions of myself. To speak to myself with grace. To talk to myself the way I would to someone I love. To notice when I’ve stopped being curious and pull myself back. When I go quiet. I’m learning about the importance of building routines, and exercising creativity even when I feel useless. To understand that just because I feel broken doesn’t mean I am.

The road ahead.

I still cry. A lot. I’m still doing the work. Some days are brutal. I begin almost every therapy session saying “I really wanted to cancel today”, because it’s true. I don’t want to talk about everything I feel. Because it doesn’t make me feel good. But I do talk. Some days I surprise myself with how far I’ve come. It’s not linear. It’s never going to be linear. But I’m here. I’m learning. And for now, that’s enough. A year ago, I don’t know if I could have written this article. A year ago, I was still hiding the darkest parts. I definitely would not have been able to post it.

The hardest win was opening up to those I love and dropping the mask. That has been the most powerful. It’s the one thing that has been able to ease some of the shame I carry. The shame that comes knowing my life is great, that I am so fortunate, and still imagine it would be better if I was not here. I imagine I’ll spend the rest of my life in this battle, but I have hope that the depths won’t be so deep, and I know I have a hand to grab when I need it – actually many.

Depression isn’t my whole life. It’s not even a majority of it. But during the small amount of time that I am experiencing it, it becomes all-consuming, and it’s sometimes hard in that moment to think my life has any other dimension to it.

If you’re struggling—please know this: You are not weak. You are not alone. You are not unlovable. Depression lies, and shame amplifies the lies. But help is available, if you give yourself permission to embrace it.

Below is a list of resources that might help. And if you’re not ready for that yet, maybe just send this article to someone you trust. Let it speak for you. Let it open the door. Because the quiet parts deserve to be heard. Especially when they’re loud.

I’m rooting for you. Quietly. Loudly. Always.

Shelly

Resources for Support

If you or anyone you know is struggling, you do not have to go through it alone. Help was so incredibly hard for me to ask for but, was also the thing that provided me with immediate relief. Removing the burden of always having a mask on helped me. The path I am on is hard, but not nearly as hard as sitting with all my dark thoughts. I don’t know if it will be the same for you. I have no doubt you and I are experiencing our depression differently–that is unfortunately the cruelty of it. If you are interested in taking that first step, below are some national resources, as well as content I have found helpful.