there’s a particular kind of silence that comes with depression—the kind that doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t bleed dramatically, doesn’t fit neatly into metaphors. it’s the kind of heaviness that folds into the smallest tasks: brushing your teeth, replying to a message, standing in the shower while the water runs but you haven’t moved. i think what hurts most isn’t always the darkness. it’s the fact that the world keeps moving as if nothing’s wrong.
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i am a potterhead at heart. growing up with harry potter gave me a story where pain looked like prophecy, where grief came with meaning.
harry lost so much, but he was the boy who lived. he had a reason. he had purpose. even when he stumbled under the weight of it all, there was a narrative that justified his sadness. he was hurting for something. for the greater good. for the war. for love.
i wasn’t at war with voldemort. i was at war with mornings that felt endless. i wasn’t carrying a prophecy; just the quiet, aching knowledge that i didn’t know how to be okay. and for a long time, that made me feel invisible. like my sadness wasn’t valid unless it came with a headline or a spotlight.
i felt ashamed that i was struggling without a story to point to, without a noble cause. who was i to be this tired? to be this worn down?
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but what i’ve learned, slowly, and not all at once, is that survival doesn’t need to be cinematic to be sacred. no one ever wrote a prophecy about me, but i’m still here. no wand chose me. no mentor told me i was special. but i’ve fought for every inch of light in my life, and that counts for something. that has to count for something.
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depression doesn’t make you weak. it makes everything heavier. and choosing to carry it, quietly, daily, without recognition, is a form of bravery i don’t think the world celebrates enough. maybe i’ll never be the chosen one. but i am still someone. and on most days, that’s enough to keep going.