It has now been a year since I reached the lowest point of my life, immersed in a darkness that felt infinite. Depression fell upon me like a violent storm, dragging me into an abyss where hope felt out of reach and unattainable. At the height of this crisis, I experienced thoughts I never imagined I could have—thoughts of giving up and even flashes of anger towards others. I no longer recognized myself. The image I projected and the person I felt I was inside had nothing in common.

The physical repercussions of depression were undeniable. In a single month, I gained 10 kilos, a tangible reflection of the inner turmoil that consumed me. This weight was not just a number; it was the embodiment of my pain, stress, and the chaos that had taken hold of my life. My body mirrored the torment of my mind: irregular heartbeats, constant tension, and relentless restlessness. The illness wasn’t just in my mind; it seeped into every corner of my being, casting its shadow on every part of my existence.

Despite this, I maintained the appearance of strength and stability to those around me. I forced smiles, played the role of someone who was “okay” when, inside, I was silently screaming for relief. I hid behind a mask of happiness and solidarity, always ready to give advice, lend a hand, or be present for others. Ironically, those who knew me best believed I was still that reliable, unwavering person I had always been.

But behind closed doors, the reality was starkly different. I was trapped in my own silence, suffocating behind the façade I had constructed. This illusion, while it kept me afloat for a while, also blinded me to the true extent of my pain. I turned to food and alcohol, desperate to convince myself that I could manage. But the weight gain was more than just a symptom; it was a manifestation of my suffering, a shield that allowed me to bury my turmoil beneath a layer of denial.

Then came January, and with it, a moment of reckoning. My doctor warned me that if I didn’t change something, I would need medication to control my blood pressure. It was an awakening that I couldn’t ignore. With the help of my therapist, I resolved to take back control and confront one of the most visible consequences of my depression: my weight. Focusing on my physical health became a therapeutic mission, a way to reclaim a sense of agency and remember who I was before the shadows took over.

During this dark period, I also found myself withdrawing from the people who mattered most, including my children. December passed without the warmth that had defined our family traditions. There were no decorations, no tree—only a day spent in bed, swallowed by despair. Although I had started therapy, denial still lingered. Accepting the reality of my situation felt like confronting a storm I wasn’t ready for. The fear of admitting that I had lost my way, that the person everyone leaned on was now so broken, was paralyzing.

Therapy helped me begin to reclaim my life, to reintroduce healthier habits and, most importantly, to rediscover the joy that had been missing for so long. Little by little, I started to find pleasure in caring for myself, in listening to my needs, and in moving away from the destructive patterns that had become my refuge. I learned to acknowledge my vulnerabilities, to accept that I couldn’t always be strong for everyone.

In the midst of this solitude and reflection, I found something deeper. As I withdrew from others, becoming quieter and more introspective, I rediscovered my faith. Turning to God became a pivotal part of my healing. He became my unwavering source of comfort, the only one who could listen without judgment and embrace me as I was—broken but not beyond repair. In my darkest moments, when it felt as though no one could understand, I found solace in knowing He was there. Today, He remains the place where I find my greatest refuge, reminding me that even in my most vulnerable state, I am never truly alone.

A year later, I feel strong enough to share this experience, hoping it can reach those who might be facing their own silent battles. We must remember that anyone can bend under the weight of life’s trials. Mental health is a complex reality that touches every part of our lives, even when we least expect it. We often assume that those who smile and appear fine are safe, but appearances can be deceiving. We should never wait for things to reach their breaking point before seeking help.

I chose to ask for help—a choice that saved my life. By sharing my story, I hope to tell those who suffer in silence that there is hope, and that reaching out is not a sign of weakness but the first courageous step toward healing.

To those close to me who read this, I want to say that I am sorry for the act, for pretending to be strong when I wasn’t. Sometimes, we believe we are invincible until we are forced to confront our own fragility. It is in those moments that we discover how vulnerable we truly are and how hard it can be to find someone who listens without expecting us to be “the strong one.”

Let us be gentle with ourselves, understand that vulnerability is a form of strength, and know that asking for help is a brave act. To everyone struggling, know that you are not alone. Be kind to yourself, take the time you need, and never hesitate to reach out. The path to healing is not without challenges, but every step forward is worth it.