Depression is a relentless beast. It’s that clingy, annoying ex who always shows up uninvited, wrecks your plans, and overstays their welcome no matter how hard you try to shut the door. People love to hand out advice like “just think positively” or “try yoga,” as if I haven’t already been down every self-help rabbit hole imaginable. Sometimes I want to hand them a shiny medal that says “Captain Obvious” and let them bask in their groundbreaking wisdom.
The truth is, unless you’ve lived it, you don’t really get it. Therapists might have all the degrees and data in the world, but even they can’t fully understand what it’s like to wake up on a random Tuesday, stare at the ceiling for an hour, and then roll over because facing the day feels like some cruel cosmic joke.
I grew up with a front-row seat to mental health expertise. My mom was a therapist—one of the leading authorities in her field, no less. She wasn’t just a great parent; she was an all-star. Every school play, recital, or random class event? She was there, cheering me on with genuine pride. She worked hard to create a home full of love and learning, always armed with the tools to help me through life’s challenges. But when you’re raised by a professional problem-solver, there’s an unspoken pressure to have your act together—because when you don’t, it’s like holding up a mirror to all the tools they’ve tried to give you.
“Anya,” she’d say gently, “let’s talk about your self-sabotaging tendencies.” Translation: “Why are you making life so much harder for yourself?” It came from a place of love, but as a kid, it’s tough to process that without feeling like you’re constantly being dissected.
My dad, meanwhile, had his own battles. He loved me in his way but struggled with consistency. He wasn’t the rock I could lean on; he was more like a passing breeze—there and gone. It left me balancing between their worlds: one parent trying to understand me completely and another who didn’t seem to understand himself.
By the time I was sixteen, I wasn’t obsessing over crushes or weekend plans. I was deep in the weeds of self-analysis, equipped with a vocabulary of cognitive behavioural techniques and emotional diagnostics that would’ve made Freud proud. But knowing why you’re sad doesn’t make you any less sad. If anything, it makes you hyper-aware of your own flaws without giving you the tools to fix them.
And trust? Let’s just say it doesn’t come easy when life has repeatedly shown you that people can love you and still let you down. Over time, you learn to give without expecting much in return—an endless well of support for others, even if your own glass is empty.
So here I am, a perfectly imperfect blend of early-onset existential dread and a crippling habit of overthinking. I’d love to wrap this up with a silver lining, but life isn’t always a neat little package tied up with self-care and smoothies. Sometimes the darkness doesn’t go away; it just shifts and settles, becoming part of you like a coat that never quite fits.
Still, there’s a strange comfort in the absurdity of it all. Maybe that’s what my parents, in their own ways, taught me—life doesn’t owe you answers or closure. Some wounds never heal; they just become part of your story. And if you’re lucky, you’ll find moments of humour in the chaos, little pockets of light that make the weight easier to bear, even if it’s just enough to get you through another Tuesday morning.
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