I’ve been struggling—on and off, on and off, on and off.
That’s the rhythm of my life lately. It’s not dramatic or cinematic. It’s just exhaustion. It’s just heaviness. It’s just me, trying to exist in a world that never stops asking for more.
Back in August I finally hit a point where I needed a break. I didn’t have some miracle epiphany. It was just a quiet collapse. A family trip to Nova Scotia, time with people I love—beautiful scenery, ocean air—and I still felt nothing. No joy. No rest. Just the same weight in a different location.
When the trip ended, panic set in. The thought of going back to work made my whole body buzz like live electricity. I wasn’t planning to do anything—but I found myself wishing for an ending. An end to the pressure. An end to the noise. An end to everything.
It wasn’t until a close friend and I really talked that I found the words: suicidal ideation.
Not a plan. Just a longing for silence.
I opened up to a few people I trust. I expected judgment. Instead, I got understanding. And I finally accepted something I had tried to avoid for years: this wasn’t laziness, weakness, or being “overwhelmed.”
This was depression.
This was burnout.
And I needed help.
So I took sick leave. My doctor signed it. Appointments followed—family doctor, psychiatrist, therapist. Weeks passed. Months. And now, here I am.
Still tired.
Still not “better.”
Still feeling like I’m in the same place.
And soon, I’ll be going back to work. Not because I’m ready. Not because I want to. But because life is expensive and bills don’t care about mental health.
What I’ve learned (and what still hurts)
I learned I have some truly good friends—the kind who show up, who listen, who sit in the dark with you without needing to fix it.
I also learned I have friends who… just don’t give a shit.
Not maliciously. Just… absent. Disconnected. Silent.
The silence hurts more than arguments ever could.
There’s this other truth I’ve been avoiding, but it keeps coming back, so I might as well say it out loud:
I don’t think I’ll ever be anyone’s “number one.”
People move on. They get busy. They get excited about someone or something new—and suddenly, I’m background noise.
It feels awful to write that, but it’s real. To be set aside so easily… it carves something out of you.
And it leaves me with this:
I feel like I’m still the same person I was at the start of this breakdown. Still stuck. Still tired. Still alone in a room full of people.
Still in this life… just for me.
There’s no happy ending here (yet)
I’d love to tie this up with some hopeful lesson or breakthrough. I’d love to say therapy fixed me, or I rediscovered joy, or I finally love myself the way people on inspirational posters say I should.
But the truth is messier.
I’m not healed.
I’m not “new.”
I’m not transformed.
I’m just… still here.
Still trying.
Still breathing.
Still waking up every day to fight the same invisible battle.
And maybe that’s enough—for now.
Maybe “still here” is its own kind of victory.
I don’t have a happy ending.
But I’m still writing.