‘While It is true that you are not alone, the mind can have you believing otherwise.’
While it’s true that you’re not alone, the mind can often have you believing otherwise.
According to the World Health Organization, in 2019, one in every eight people—around 970 million globally—were living with a mental health disorder. Anxiety and depression were the most common. Many of these conditions are serious, and while it’s uncomfortable to talk about my own experience, I consider myself someone who advocates for mental health. I’ve come to believe that sharing personal stories matters.
By the time you reach the end of this post, more people will have lost their lives to suicide. That’s a heavy sentence, but it’s the reality we’re living in—and ignoring it won’t help us change it.
Hearing others speak honestly over the years helped me feel less alone. I simply feel a responsibility to do the same. If someone is reading this and quietly struggling, I want you to know you’re not the only one.
Please remember, this blog reflects my lived experience of depression. Mental health is deeply individual. What supports one person might not work for another.
There were times I couldn’t explain what I was feeling—even to myself.
Trying to put it into words for someone else felt exhausting. Isolating. Sometimes impossible. If that’s where you are right now, I understand.
It took me years to open up to anyone about what was really going on, besides my dad. When I finally did, the first person I told didn’t quite get it—but saying it out loud was still a huge step. One I wish I’d taken sooner.
Back in 2011, I rarely heard people talk about mental illness. There was a lack of education, especially around depression and anxiety. That lack of awareness can make it even harder to ask for help. I think we’re improving, slowly, but there’s still so far to go.
If someone does open up to you, I encourage you to just listen. You don’t need to offer solutions. Sometimes the most supportive thing you can do is simply ask, “How can I help you right now?”
It’s not always easy to tell when someone is struggling.
Personally, I became pretty good at wearing the mask. I don’t think many of my tour friends or acquaintances had any idea what was really going on in my mind. I became a rather exhausted actress.
After all, how could someone performing in front of thousands each night possibly be experiencing panic attacks and depression behind the scenes? It didn’t make sense to me either. I had achieved more than I dreamed of as a dancer. I became a lead in one of the biggest shows in the world—and yet, I was drowning inside.
If those statistics are accurate, it’s likely that many performing artists are quietly struggling too. If you are one of them, reading this now, I want you to know: you can reach out. I will listen.
Every person’s recovery looks different. So does the root cause of their suffering. For me, it wasn’t a single event or experience.
Years ago, I had what felt like an emergency. A doctor prescribed high-dose medication and added me to a long waiting list for counseling. That was all they could offer. It didn’t sit right with me. I struggled to understand the chemical imbalance theory I was handed, and I started doing my own research.
Today, I no longer take medication, and I’m proud of the work I do every day to take care of my mind and body. That said, I’m not anti-medication. I believe no one should feel ashamed for needing it. Every path is valid.
Therapy hasn’t been a great fit for me so far, but I know it helps many others. I hope access to it becomes easier and more affordable.
I still have days where I feel like I’m going backwards. Like many, I feel the weight of the world. But I’m here, and I believe we all deserve to be.
One of the most important tools I now have is the ability to reach out to someone when I need to—without feeling like a burden.
Another tool is understanding that the mind is always going to think. That’s its job. I’ve learned through meditation that I don’t need to believe every thought that pops up. I can create space between the thought and the reaction. That space, as Viktor Frankl wrote, is where our power lies.
When difficult thoughts and feelings arise, I try to meet them with grace. Like my dad always did for me. I remind myself they will pass—they always do. If you need that reminder too, I hope this gives it to you.
These days, I try to feel what I feel with less judgment. To acknowledge instead of avoid. To accept, even when it’s uncomfortable. I’ve made it through before, and I know I can again.
I love Susan David’s work on emotional agility. She writes, “Your emotions are data, not directives.” I don’t need to judge my emotions or let them run the show. They’re valid—but they aren’t always truth.
Other things that help me stay well: having purpose, helping others (even though some days I struggle to support myself), and setting boundaries.
I believe kindness, listening, and less judgment are powerful places to start. We need to make it truly okay to not be okay. Sadly, one look at the comment sections online tells me we’re not quite there yet.
As humans, we all want to feel like we belong. To be seen, heard, valued, and accepted.
The world of health and wellness can be overwhelming. I laughed recently with a friend about how hard it is to create content, be creative, stay authentic, and not lose yourself online. We agreed: maybe our job isn’t to add more noise. Maybe it’s to offer clarity, calm, and tools that actually help.
Social media can be a stressor for me. So I come back to the basics:
Move in a way that feels good.
Breathe.
Get outside.
Drink water.
Eat foods that nourish you.
Connect with people. (I’m still working on that one.) But not just any people. The right people. Being surrounded by others but feeling no connection can make things worse. I value meaningful conversations and safe, trusting environments. My circle is small, and that’s okay.
Many people with depression withdraw socially. But we’re wired for connection. I used to think health just meant exercise, good food, sleep, nature walks. But I did all those things religiously—and still felt anxious and low.
What I hadn’t considered were things like unprocessed beliefs from childhood, feeling unseen, unsupported, disconnected. Those matter too.
Just a reminder: I’m not a mental health expert. I’m someone living with depression, sharing what’s helped me.
Depression has taken a lot from me—motivation, memory, relationships, work, money. I struggle to retain information. It’s deeply frustrating, and it’s real. (I joke that if any future date reads this blog, I’ll probably stay single. But hey, honesty first.)
What depression has also given me, though, are things I truly value:
Empathy. Awareness. Kindness. Generosity. A little less judgment. Real authenticity. A strong work ethic. And courage. That matters too.
So, that’s a bit of an update from me this Mental Health Awareness Week. When I have the energy, I’ll be back to share more.
Until then, take care. Sending hugs to anyone who needs one.
Before you go, have a read of the poem below. It’s one I return to often.
Is there a pattern you keep repeating that might be hurting your mental health? A hole you keep falling into?
There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk – by Portia Nelson
Chapter One
I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost... I am helpless. It isn't my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.
Chapter Two
I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don't see it. I fall in again. I can't believe I am in the same place. But it isn't my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.
Chapter Three
I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in... it's a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault... I get out immediately.
Chapter Four
I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
Chapter Five
I walk down another street.
Reference: https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/mental-disorders
