AM I DEPRESSED, OR IS IT WINTER?
(A field guide for when your brain feels like it’s been left out in a snowbank)
It always starts the same way:
Eight hours of sleep, sometimes more, and still waking up feels like I’ve just emerged from a snowbank. My eyes open, but my body refuses to follow. Then comes the morning gauntlet: that little list of "basic" tasks that other people seem to do without effort.
Shower.
Meds.
Supplements.
Clothes.
Life.
I slog through it all like I’m wading through mud. My body doesn’t even feel like it belongs to me. I’ll walk past my meds a dozen times, stare at them, and still not take them. The supplements? They’re supposed to keep me from falling apart, but now they just sit there, reminders of all the shit I’m supposed to be afraid of. Maybe you know this feeling too—the never-ending list of crap you’re supposed to do, and not a shred of energy to do it. Mornings are a fucking obstacle course, and I know I’m not the only one crawling through it.
Somehow, though, I never forget coffee.
Or breakfast.
Or anything full of sugar masquerading as fuel.
And on the days I don’t give in to those things?
I’m a zombie.
A walking, blinking, semi-functional corpse wandering from room to room.
That's when the thoughts start:
I call it "the Judge." The voice that sits in the shadows, always ready to question my worth and decisions.
Why can't you do what you told yourself you’d do?Why do you need shame to take care of yourself?
Why does therapy fall off the to-do list first?Why can't you improve anything? What the hell is wrong with you?
But today, I decide to ask back: Judge, what makes you think you're right? What if you're wrong? Maybe, you're just a product of another dark winter.
Depression is hereditary in my family. Like bad knees, but existential.
It's a pattern echoed across generations, not just in my own family but in countless others, as statistics show that hereditary depression affects a significant portion of society. My mom disappeared into her bedroom for days. Curtains stayed closed. The world shut out. Sleep swallowed her whole. Aunts and uncles medicated themselves into oblivion, or almost. My dad took the same meds I'm on now.
My brother and I talk, and he tells me he “feels off,” and I know exactly what he means. Depression isn’t sadness; it’s a pressure chamber. Minimal oxygen. No exits. Every breath is a negotiation.
When I’m depressed — like now — I isolate.
The same way my mom did.
In the same way that many have done before me.
It’s generational gravity, and it pulls hard.
Work becomes white noise.
Exercise becomes impossible.
A minute on a treadmill drags. Time slows. Crawling. Each step stretches endlessly. It feels like hours. Trapped in harsh conditions. Fighting for each breath.
Lifting weights feels pointless. It’s a parody of effort.
And then I blame myself.
Not lightly — thoroughly.
Systematically.
With the precision of someone who knows exactly where to stab.
I think:
You’re not a good person.
You let yourself off the hook for everything.
You blame others but never change yourself.
You go silent until the words explode like a geyser of molten rage.
Life would be better if you were to disappear.
But like winter, this shit might pass. If you’re drowning, yeah, maybe reach out. Or don’t. I know how hard it is to even send a text. But sometimes, just letting someone know you’re not okay is enough to keep you from going under. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t have the answers. I just know it’s better than disappearing completely.
That last one is familiar. Not new. Just louder in the dark.
And then comes winter.
The days shrink.
The sun is a rumor.
Everything moves inside: dinners, hobbies, movement, social lives, souls.
The quiet gets louder.
Screens replace faces.
The world shrinks down to four walls and a screen. It’s like being locked in a padded cell, except you’re supposed to pretend you’re fine and keep scrolling.
Seasonal depression sneaks in, wearing a coat the same color as “normal.”
Shorter days. Longer nights. It’s a slow erosion that feels like a change in personality. But it isn’t.
This year has been a motherfucker.
You don’t lose:
two friends,
your father,
your dog, nearly,
your health,
your financial footing,
your sense of safety,
and your sense of self
…without something inside you cracking at the hinge.
You don’t walk through a year like this and come out “fine.”
And you’re right — you’re not healed.
But that’s not a moral failure.
That’s gravity.
That’s biology.
Your trauma starts leaking out of your body, showing up in all the ways you can’t ignore. That ache in your back that won’t quit? That’s not just from sitting too long. That’s stress, that’s grief, that’s all the shit you’ve been carrying, and it’s not going anywhere.
You may think you are like a black hole, ready to pull everything in, but you’re not.
You think you’re going to pull everyone in and destroy them.
You won’t.
You’re not the collapse — you’re the survivor crawling from the wreckage.
Thirty more years?
You don’t have to figure out the next thirty years. Hell, you don’t even have to figure out next week. Just ask yourself: what’s the smallest thing I can actually do before noon? That’s it. That’s the whole game. Survive until tomorrow morning. That’s enough.
The next shower.
The next handful of meds.
The next evening, when you decide to stay instead of vanishing.
Something has to change — yes.
But the change isn’t forced.
It’s not about doing more, working harder, or trying to fix yourself. It’s about listening closer, extending compassion to yourself, and allowing gentleness to guide you.
You cannot outwork depression.
You cannot outrun winter.
You cannot shame yourself into sunlight.
The only way forward is smaller.
Quieter.
Gentler than your instincts suggest.
You don’t need to be better.
You need to stop expecting to be superhuman.
Something has to change.
Or maybe I just wait for the days to get longer again.
Here’s the truth: It’s both.
You wait for lighter days, and shrink your days to what you can bear.
You’re not failing.
You’re wintering. That’s not dying.
It’s an act of preparation for life.
It’s preparing to live again.
