Late in my teenage years, I started experiencing symptoms associated with Major Depressive Disorder, also known as clinical depression. I was diagnosed officially in college and formally introduced to the elaborate, mysterious, and frustrating relationship between the two rival factions in my head: my brain and my mind.

My mind knows that, no matter how bleak it all may seem at the time, I am not alone and things will get better. Its counterpart, my brain, is under no such pretenses. My brain spins like a hard drive, refusing to wind down, constantly grinding away. My brain betrays my mind, sapping my energy. Replacing passion with nothingness, leaving a state of numbness and paralysis. When my brain wins, I cannot get out of bed. My entire body feels heavy and I cannot muster the strength to break free of the invisible force surrounding me. Exhaustion, even after 12 hours of sleep, envelopes me.

I have been very lucky over the last twenty years in that, with a combination of therapy, medication, and personal lifestyle choices, I have remained highly functional. I am truly fortunate to have the ability to access quality mental health care and to have my symptoms taken seriously. For many people, the same is not true.

In September 2018, seemingly overnight, I entered a major depressive episode. Having been in this position before, I knew what I needed to do—see my doctor and find my way back to an even keel. The answer, at the time, was to increase my medication. For a few weeks, it worked. But, at the end of October, I found myself again unable to get out of bed. Adding another medication, I appeared to come out of it. Unfortunately, that too was temporary. My cycle of decline and slight rebound continued until, in June, a medication mix-up sent me into a tailspin. Over the course of the summer of 2019, I clawed my way back, but even this period of calm was short lived. My brain kept sliding back four steps for every one step gained.

The side effects of my significantly increased medication fully manifested themselves and couldn’t be hidden, try as I might. A dear colleague, seeing my shaking hands, was so concerned that she lovingly reached out to ask if I had seen a neurologist for my tremors. Other side effects were easier to conceal, but troubled me far more. The dense fog surrounding my mind kept even my most commonly used words and phrases just out of reach and hid my short-term memories, just far enough away that I couldn’t grasp them. I felt my mind, the place where I find joy and fulfillment in thought and reflection, slipping away. In early November, I had a moment of extreme clarity where I felt myself, literally, losing my mind. My brain told me that I was trapped and would never be able to escape. I started to think, very systematically and pragmatically, about how I would end my life, just to make it stop. One afternoon, about two weeks before Thanksgiving, I took out a notepad and started writing my own obituary, ready to put my plan into action. I’m struck by how ludicrous it all seems to me now, but it wasn’t then.

In that moment, something clicked and my mind pulled me back from the brink. I called my husband and asked him to come home. He knew I was feeling down, but I had kept the extent of my depressive episode from him, just like I’d kept it from everyone else. In our current work culture, if I’m not in the office, people might notice they haven’t seen me around lately but, thanks to technology, they generally aren’t concerned about it as long as emails and calls get returned, and deliverables show up.

This moment wasn’t about realizing that I need help—twenty years of living with depression has taught me that—but rather that I needed more help. Together, my doctor and I agreed that I must address whatever is at the center of my brain’s inability to function in its current environment. When I walked out of the office in January 2020, I intended to spend three months recovering from this major depressive episode. I had this vague notion of starring in my own personal remake of Eat Pray Love. Oh, how mistaken I was. On that day, only a few weeks removed from planning to end my life, I was in worse shape than I could appreciate. It didn’t take me three months to find myself. It took me a year. And I am still a work in progress.

I’m happy to be alive. I’m enjoying being alive. For a long time, neither of those two statements were true. It’s taken a lot of therapy and working on myself to get to this point, but it has been so worth it. I share my story not because I think it makes me special or heroic, but because I want others who are struggling right now or who know (or think they might know) someone who is struggling to know that they are not alone, that help is available, and that there is hope for the future.

This isn’t the end of my journey to mental wellness. However, it may just be the end of the beginning.

To all of those who have come along with me and supported me in my recovery: Thank you! Your encouragement means more than I will ever be able to express.

Endurance training, especially running, has been critical in helping me get through and manage living with both depression and OCD. As a member of the Board of Directors of Mental Health America of Greater Houston, I am honored to be an ambassador for the organization at this year's Houston Marathon. If you are able and feel inspired, I would greatly appreciate your donation in support of my effort this January. Your gift will touch countless lives and help deliver mental health resources to our community. Together, we can #smashthestigma.

Thank you!