How I Found Light While Fighting Depression

I used to think that depression looked like constant sadness—tears, darkness, maybe someone curled up in bed unable to move. But when I went through it myself, it didn’t look like that at all.

It looked like me waking up every morning and feeling nothing. It looked like smiling at people and laughing at jokes, while something inside me remained completely still. I wasn't crying. I wasn’t angry. I just felt... empty.

At first, I didn’t call it depression. I told myself I was just tired, or burnt out, or “in a funk.” I kept working, seeing friends, doing the things I thought I was supposed to do. But little by little, I was withdrawing from life. I stopped texting people back. I stopped going outside unless I had to. I stopped doing the things I loved—reading, journaling, long walks—because they no longer brought me joy.

And yet, I kept wearing a mask.

I’d tell everyone I was fine. I didn’t want to be a burden. I thought that if I just kept pushing through, eventually the weight would lift. But it didn’t. The more I ignored it, the heavier it got. It was like walking through water all day, every day, pretending the current wasn’t pulling me under.

Then one morning, I broke.

It was such a simple moment. I was brushing my teeth when I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back. My eyes looked tired. My face looked blank. I suddenly realized I hadn’t truly felt anything in weeks. Not happiness. Not pain. Just this strange numbness that clung to everything.

That was the moment I admitted the truth to myself: I was depressed.

It was terrifying to name it. But also, strangely freeing. Like a door had opened.

I didn’t magically get better after that. In fact, things got harder before they got easier. But I made a promise to myself that day: I would stop pretending. I would stop hiding.

I reached out to a therapist—a kind, warm woman who didn’t try to “fix” me but instead helped me understand my patterns. She gently guided me through the thoughts I had buried for years. She taught me that depression doesn’t mean you’re broken or weak—it means your mind and body are overwhelmed and need care.

I also began opening up to close friends. It was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. Saying, “I’m struggling,” out loud felt like standing naked in the rain. But every time someone responded with, “Me too,” or “I’m here for you,” a little bit of the darkness lifted.

And that’s when the light started to seep in.

Not all at once. But in tiny ways.

A warm cup of coffee on a cold morning. A text from a friend asking how I was doing and actually listening to my answer. A day when I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. These moments became my anchors. I started to believe that healing wasn’t about waking up one day and suddenly feeling amazing. It was about noticing the small signs that life was still worth living.

I learned to care for myself in ways I never had before.

I made peace with rest. I stopped shaming myself for needing breaks, for not being “productive” every moment of the day. I started going on slow walks again, not for exercise, but just to be in the world. I started journaling—not to write anything profound, but to remind myself that my thoughts mattered.

Some days were still hard. But slowly, I began building a toolkit for those days: a favorite playlist, a list of people I could reach out to, calming breathing exercises, little rituals that reminded me I was safe, loved, and worthy.

What surprised me most was how deeply depression had taught me to see others with compassion. Once you’ve known that kind of quiet pain, you notice it in other people’s eyes too. And you want to be gentle. You want to make space for others to feel without fear.

That’s what brought me here—to write this story. Not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I know how powerful it is to hear, “You’re not alone.”

If you’re reading this and carrying your own version of the darkness, please believe me: the light exists. It may be hard to see right now. But it’s there—in small moments, in kind words, in reaching out. Healing isn’t a straight line. And it doesn’t happen overnight. But it is possible.

Today, I still have hard days. But I also have hope. I laugh more. I connect more. I feel more. And that is more than enough.

💡 Moral / Life Lesson:

The journey from depression to healing isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about learning to see light even in the smallest cracks, and holding onto those sparks until they grow.

You are not your darkness. You are the one walking through it. And that takes courage.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi