It can be tough to put a name to it.

So often it’s a nebulous thing. Something that couldn’t be connected to yourself. Something that happens to others, but not you.

But hearing it from my sister as we sat across each other at Pho van fresh— “that sounds like depression,” as I explained that I couldn’t see the future. That even though I’ve been working towards goals… it hasn’t felt like there’s been any tangible progress or energy to it.

Funny that forcing it out in the open (of what has been a pretty obvious thing for the past two years) allowed me to take that necessary step back. The “aha!” moment that explained the patterns that didn’t have a good explanation.

“Something is off, but I don’t know what.” I’m sure I said that half a hundred times. Even the enjoyment of core activities had diminished. I was still writing and coaching, but at subpar levels.

Writing this now isn’t some triumphant bugle call that I’ve created the mountain, but rather that I’ve seen the peak.

The past two years have been a whirlwind of grief, dislocation, wonder, sorrow, unease, and incredulity.

There’s an apathetic sleeper hold depression wields with me. A slow choke that slowly bleeds the colors out of who I am. What once was a kaleidoscope became a monotony.

I’ve been told in the past that I hardly show when I’m anxious or scared. But I can promise you that whatever calm I operated on wasn’t the smooth ride you’d imagine it to be.

I bottomed out on confidence. Passion was a distant thing. The future held horrors or calcite snapshots of another age. And all the while I’d chug along— knowing that something was deeply wrong, but unable to accept the reality.

I’d had the same problem wrestling with loneliness at the beginning of my adventure in Japan. I acted as if surviving one extreme bout of it would somehow insulate me from ever experiencing it again (wrong).

That’s how I was approaching depression (which half I’d saddle on seasonal depression— you gloomy fuck, bring back the sunshine). Almost a willful disregard to a treatable problem (but only if there’s a diagnosis).

Maybe the heart of it is that dreaming new dreams can be terrifying. Because the ones from before are gone. Or at least, they’re gone from view like flowers pressed between pages. A beautiful thing captured.

I hope to dream anew

Under the approaching spring sun and lengthening day light. I hope to exit gracefully from this period of my life (or at least functionally).

I have been unmoored— by design— for the past couple years.

Now I look to open berths and whisper “courage” under my breath. I am starting again— with everything I have ever lived and loved. With every fear, nightmare, and dream that has shaped the contours of my bones.