Let’s Just Be Honest
A few months ago, I told someone I was having a depressive episode, and their first question was why I was sad. I remember thinking about that question and choosing not to respond as bluntly as I wanted. Sadness has nothing to do with my depressive episodes. It never has.
So what does depression look like for me? How did I know I had it? How do I handle it?
I’ve always known depression wasn’t just a “feeling” for me — it was a pattern, an experience, something that ran deeper than mood or circumstance. But my understanding of it didn’t come out of nowhere. It was shaped by the world I grew up in.
Growing Up Inside Someone Else’s Storm ⛈️
Mental disorders ran through my mother’s side of the family, and looking at my dad’s life, I’m convinced he had his own struggles too — but let’s stay with what’s confirmed. My mother was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when I was in my early 20s. There had been plenty of manic moments growing up, but I honestly thought they were normal. After her hysterectomy around age 40, everything escalated and the signs became impossible to miss.
When I compare my childhood to stories from others — especially my husband — I realize just how far from “normal” it was.
It’s not normal for your oldest brother to break out brass knuckles on your dad and send him to the ER.
It’s not normal for your mom to pack up all the kids and take off to Florida without telling your dad, only to drive back the next day.
It’s not normal for your parents to marry and divorce each other twice.
It’s not normal for your mom to put all your family photos by the street in a trash pile.
It’s not normal for your dad to “un-invite” you from his funeral repeatedly because he was angry.
But over time, I learned that “normal” isn’t real. Honestly, I think the word “normal” is a lie from the pit of hell — a word meant to tell us whether we’re measuring up or not. Most of us come from some version of brokenness. Some of us just admit it instead of ignoring it. And some of us have higher degrees of brokenness than others, but we are all broken.
Watching my mom’s episodes taught me to recognize instantly whether she was taking her medication. Her voice alone gave it away. When she felt better, she’d stop her meds because she believed she didn’t need them, not realizing she felt better because she was taking them.
As I approached 40, I asked my husband to watch me closely. I knew what showed up in my mom at that age, and I wanted to be aware if anything started to surface in me too.
Doing Everything Right and Still Falling Apart
For years I exercised, ate well, took care of myself, and did everything I knew to tip the scales toward good mental health. I’ve always believed what happens in the body affects what happens in the mind.
As I neared 40, my doctor found a mass on my right ovary that needed to come out immediately. They assured me my left ovary would “pick up the slack.” That was absolutely not true. Looking back, I wish I had baseline labs to compare to, but I didn’t. All I had was how I felt — and nothing felt right.
My whole body changed, and mentally I began to unravel. I couldn’t regulate emotions at all. Up, down, unstable — and all during an already stressful season for our family. It was the perfect storm.
My OBGYN dismissed every symptom I tried to explain. But my primary care doctor — who has treated me for over 25 years — listened. He ran tests. We tried supplements. I went to therapy. I ate clean, exercised consistently, did all the things… and still wasn’t getting better. I remembered watching my mom “go crazy,” and I didn’t want that to be me.
I’ll never forget the phone call from my doctor as I was driving home around 6pm. He told me he wanted me to try medication. He knew my history. He knew my resistance. But he asked me — almost pleaded with me — to try it for him, just to see if it helped.
So I did. And slowly, it did. It didn’t erase my episodes, but it softened them. More importantly, I learned how to recognize the early warning signs… most of the time.
I’m not the face people picture when they think of “depression.” I’m positive, outgoing, smiling, friendly, athletic, healthy, committed to Jesus, a high performer in work and life. I can carry a lot.
But hi — I’m Becky, and yes, I have depression.
Welcome to the Box that Holds My Episodes 🧊
If you really want to understand my depression, take a little tour with me — into the box where I go when an episode hits.
First stop: the chair.
It sits in the center of a giant clear acrylic cube. I’m in that chair — no expression, no movement, no emotion. I’m aware that I’m sitting there, but I’m not connected to anything else.
Next stop: the walls.
They are acrylic. They’re thick. Solid. Soundproof. Nothing gets through them. Acrylic, not glass — because glass implies the possibility of breaking. These walls don’t break.
Inside the walls, everything shuts off.
Noise disappears. Emotion disappears. Even the sense that the outside world exists disappears. I’m not sad or scared or hopeless. I’m just blank. Numb. It’s the absence of feeling that defines the experience. Inside the box are blank white walls and that single simple chair.
And then there’s the disconnect.
Another version of me stands outside the box watching. She sees me sitting there, but she can’t reach me. That split — inside me and outside me — is what depression feels like for me.
And I never break out. Ever. What happens instead is that, over time, the walls slowly thin until the outside version of me can finally reach in and take my hand. That’s when the episode lifts. Sometimes my husband can reach in earlier, but usually, I wait.
Working With Depression Instead of Against It
People ask if I cling to certain Bible verses when I’m in the box. Sometimes, yes. But mostly, I wait. I stopped begging God to remove this a few years after I was officially diagnosed. I remember praying during a walk, asking Him to take it away, and being reminded of Paul’s thorn. Paul begged God repeatedly to remove it, too — and God said no.
That thorn kept Paul close to Him. It kept him humble.
This is my thorn. And if I must carry it, I want to carry it well.
With medication (11+ years now), healthy habits, prayer, and drawing near to God, my episodes are far fewer and less severe. But they still happen. Sometimes suddenly. Sometimes without warning. But this isn’t my first rodeo. I know what to do, even if I don’t feel like doing it.
Fighting against my episodes drains energy I don’t have. When I’m in my box, energy is scarce — so I’ve learned not to waste it spinning my wheels.
Do I feel close to Jesus when I’m in that box? Honestly, no. I don’t feel anything. But that doesn’t mean He isn’t near. He hasn’t moved. It’s just my box trying to isolate me again.
Why Thanksgiving and Christmas Require Awareness
A few weeks ago, I had another episode. It hit fast — sudden, unexpected, and without any of the usual warning signs I’ve learned to watch for. When I stepped back later and looked at the timing, it made complete sense.
All the Thanksgiving planning and hosting, followed immediately by gearing up for Christmas —
the cooking,
the schedules,
the expectations we put on ourselves this time of year —
it was a lot. More than I gave myself credit for.
Holiday stress doesn’t always look like stress. It looks like “just one more thing,” then another, then another. It looks like wanting everything to be meaningful, beautiful, memorable. It looks like trying to create moments and memories for everyone else while quietly draining ourselves in the process.
When you carry depression — even well, even with tools and medication and faith and support — the holidays matter. They fray the edges. They pile up faster. And if I’m not paying attention, I can end up back in that acrylic box before I recognize what pushed me there.
The episode passed, like they always do. The walls thinned again. But it reminded me — especially during the holidays — that carrying this well requires honesty about my limits. It requires noticing when the weight is shifting. It requires margin, not performance. It requires grace for myself, not perfection.
From the Porch 🍃
The holidays don’t cause my depression, but they absolutely shape the environment around it. So I walk through this season with intention — aware, steady, and paying attention.
This is the quiet side of the holidays no one talks about.
And from the porch, this is me choosing to face it honestly, carry it well, and live a real life — not a pretend one.