Welcome Aboard the Hot Mess Express!

Rain, rain, go away.
Come again another day…

It’s the beginning of a children’s song that I’ve sung to many small children in my lifetime, but lately it’s felt more like my daily mantra.

Most people see rain as calming. Cozy, even. But for me, rain has always been a thief. It steals my energy, my motivation, and sometimes even the fragile pieces of myself I fight desperately to hold onto. Gray skies have a way of creeping into every corner of my mind, and after days of relentless rain, it starts to feel impossible to escape.

These past few days have been especially hard. The rain has fallen so endlessly that it feels like the sun packed up and disappeared months ago. My body feels heavy. My mind feels heavier.

Today, I finally took a shower. My first one since Saturday.

And before anyone rushes to judge that, let me explain something about Depression.
No, actually…depression. Lower case “d”. I refuse to even give it the dignity of a capital letter. It doesn’t deserve one.

It is a monster.

It takes ordinary, everyday tasks such as showering, brushing your hair, getting out of bed, and turns them into mountains that feel impossible to climb. I’m not exaggerating when I say even basic hygiene can hurt. Some mornings, simply waking up hurts.
And lately, it’s been hurting a lot.

People might ask what I “have to be depressed about.” I have a great job. A roof over my head. An incredible circle of people who love and support me daily. I am deeply blessed in this season of life.

But that’s the thing about depression: it doesn’t care.

It doesn’t care what you have or don’t have. It doesn’t care how loved you are, how successful you appear, or how much gratitude you carry in your heart. It simply takes.

And takes.
And takes.

Until you feel like there’s nothing left.

And even then, it still reaches for more.

I’m sitting here writing this because writing has always brought me joy. Or at least, it used to. I haven’t done much of it lately, so I thought maybe putting pen to paper,  or more accurately, fingers to keyboard,  might help me untangle what’s been living inside my head.

But even this hurts.

Honestly, I can’t even call them “feelings,” because depression often isn’t sadness the way people imagine it to be. It’s not dramatic sobbing on the bathroom floor every second of the day. Sometimes it’s far quieter than that.

Sometimes it’s just… nothingness. Nothingness to the point where you don’t have the strength to cry. Because crying is some kind of result of some kind of emotion and with depression, you don’t have the feelings. It’s just a black hole.

A never-ending fog. A numbness so deep and so exhausting that even existing feels heavy. A constant, colorless “blah” that stretches on for so long you start to wonder if you’ll ever feel fully alive again.

I have medication that I’m supposed to take every day, and sure, maybe I’ve missed a dose here and there. But is it terrible to admit that some days, even doing the one small thing that might make the pain a little more manageable feels impossible? That’s the cruel irony of depression. The very things that could help you start feeling better are often the things it convinces you you’re too exhausted, too numb, or too broken to do.

As a Christian, this is probably the part where I’m supposed to insert an uplifting Bible verse or remind everyone that God has a plan and purpose for our pain. And the truth is, I still believe those things with my whole heart.
But I also promised myself this blog would be raw and honest.

And right now, even reaching for Scripture hurts.

Not because I’ve stopped believing in God. Not because I think His promises are any less true. But because depression has a way of making even hope feel heavy sometimes. The words that normally bring comfort can feel distant when your mind is fighting just to keep its head above water.

I still believe God is there. I still believe He hasn’t abandoned me. I still believe light exists beyond this darkness.

But if I’m being completely honest? Right now, I don’t feel those truths the way I normally do. And I think there’s a difference between losing your faith and simply being too exhausted to feel it.

And I think that’s okay because God knows how I feel.

Maybe tomorrow will feel lighter. Maybe the rain will finally stop. Maybe I’ll wake up and feel a little more like myself again.

Or maybe I won’t.

But I think there’s something important about saying these things out loud instead of hiding them behind forced smiles, inspirational quotes, or “I’m fine” responses that aren’t actually true.

Because this is what depression can look like.

It can look like isolation in a house full of people who love you. It can look like exhaustion after doing absolutely nothing. It can look like staring at a shower, a sink full of dishes, or a blinking cursor on a screen and feeling completely overwhelmed by things that once felt simple.

And maybe someone reading this needs to know they aren’t crazy, weak, lazy, or failing because they feel that way too.

Maybe surviving is enough for today.

Not thriving.
Not conquering the world.
Not pretending everything is okay.

Just surviving.

So if you’re reading this while fighting your own invisible battle, this is me reaching into the darkness to tell you that you’re not alone in it. Even here, in the numbness, in the exhaustion, in the aching heaviness of it all… there is still a tiny flicker of hope somewhere.

I may not be able to feel its warmth fully right now, but I’m choosing to believe it still exists.

And for tonight, I think that has to be enough.