A Silent Battle Within

Sometimes a person smiles, talks, cooks, holds their children, and walks among people like everyone else. But no one knows the storm raging inside their heart. Behind that calm smile, behind those tired eyes, a sea of silent pain rises and falls. They act like everything is fine, but deep inside, quietly and profoundly, they are breaking down.

I am one of those people.

Someone fighting depression—in silence.

Not because I am weak, nor because I am ashamed, but because I am tired.

Tired of explaining.

Tired of being misunderstood.

Tired of having my pain dismissed with phrases like “You are strong” or “Everything will be okay.”

Depression doesn’t always start with tears. Sometimes it begins with silence. Losing interest in things you once loved. Mornings when you don’t want to get out of bed and nights without sleep. A heaviness in the heart, a brain that never stops shouting, a mind that won’t let you rest.

No one sees how much strength it takes to get out of bed. No one understands how brave it is to smile.

Because you have to be strong.

Because you are a mother.

Because everyone expects you to smile, cook, keep the house tidy, and keep smiling even when your soul screams.

Sometimes I think about telling someone.

Maybe the burden will be lifted if I say: “I am not okay. I am trying to survive.”

But then a voice whispers inside me:

“They won’t understand. They think you’re being dramatic. They think you’re exaggerating.”

So I stay silent.

Silent, but tired.

Silent, but full of silent screams.

Depression is not just sadness. Sometimes it’s emptiness. Sometimes you miss the version of yourself—someone who once laughed with joy, dreamed, enjoyed life. Sometimes you look in the mirror and don’t recognize that tired, lifeless face.

But I keep going.

Because I am a mother.

Because my children need me.

Because even in darkness, they are my light.

They don’t know the battle their mother fights every day just to smile.

And maybe that’s better.

Maybe they don’t need to carry my pain too. I carry it for them.

There are days when I feel like I am drowning in silence.

The world moves on, people smile and laugh, but I am stuck in this invisible cage.

I want to scream—but I don’t.

I want to cry—but I hold back.

Because I’ve learned to hide. To protect others from my darkness.

But hiding comes with a price.

The more I bury my pain, the heavier it becomes.

I long for a moment of understanding—a hand on my shoulder, a voice saying, “I see you. I hear you. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Even just one person who truly listens, without judgment, could make all the difference.

Writing is my way of breathing when I feel like I’m drowning.

These words are my silent screams.

My truth, my pain, and yet, my strength.

So let me say it plainly here:

I fight depression. Silently. Every day. Every moment.

And if you are on the same path, know you are not alone.

This pain is real. This battle is real. And staying alive—even in silence—is a great courage.

I hope one day the world will understand that depression is not weakness. Not a flaw.

It is a wound.

And like any wound, it needs care, not judgment.

It needs kindness, not shame.

Until that day comes, I write.

I fight.

I rise with tears, I sleep with exhaustion, I walk through days of grey—

but I rise.

And with every breath, I remind myself:

I am still here. And that is enough.