Today, I spoke on a Lived Experience panel for a Crisis Intervention Training (CIT) put on by NAMI Dane County. The talk I gave was originally written in June and references strawberry season and why strawberries are so important to me. As I read through it, I was reminded that there is something in my love of strawberries that is more universal and can be translated to anyone’s experience. I want to take a little time to reflect on my time in the strawberry patch and its greater significance.

Everyone who knows me, knows I love strawberries. In the summer months, I literally will not stop talking about them and the joy that they bring me and how their beauty is magical. How my time in the patch feels almost spiritual, as I practice mindfulness and staying present in the moment with every aspect of the strawberry. The bright red color, the beautiful taste, the sweet aroma, the popping sound the plant makes as you pick them, the feeling of the earth beneath you as you touch each plant, searching for the ripe berries. I love strawberries so much; I even got a tattoo of one (pictured). The way they make my heart feel full is something I strive to share with others around me each season.

This past strawberry season, the family of a patient asked if there were any more freshly picked strawberries at the place where I work as a cook. “Our mother loves strawberries,” they told me, and I told them I completely understood, and would be happy to go out and pick some fresh since we grow them on site. I picked three or four and delivered them to the patient’s room. As I walked in with my little dish of strawberries, I got to see the patient’s face light up with joy, immediately followed by her entire family expressing excitement and gratitude that I had picked some fresh for her. A chorus of thanks and “you made her day” erupted, and I knew that moment had made my day too. I was formally introduced to the fellow strawberry lover, and I showed her my tattoo and told her I also appreciate the beauty of the strawberry, which broadened her smile. But what struck me, more than anything, was the power of that small little fruit and five minutes of my time to light up an entire room full of people.

In a particularly insightful conversation with a good friend later that day, after recounting this event, I realized that it is possible to find small little moments of joy that we can share in every day. It doesn’t have to be a strawberry; all we must do is look for the opportunity for something that brings us joy in a little moment, and then share it with others. For the rest of strawberry season, my friend and I would ask each other what our ‘strawberry’ was for that day.

The fact that a brief pocket of joy can be found in every day, no matter how stressful, is powerful, hopeful, and inspirational. If I take just a little time to look, I can usually find one. And, importantly, it is a concept that can last far beyond the three weeks of strawberry season.

What was your ‘strawberry’ today?

September is suicide prevention month. “Checking in on your friends” or publicly offering to “listen to people who are struggling” are two major ideas I see passed around on the internet during this month every year – these ideas are a good starting point, and not the end point. If you’re sharing posts like these, I know you care about this issue and want to help. This post is about how we can move beyond awareness when it comes to suicide prevention.

I fundamentally believe that suicide is not an individual issue – it is a community issue. Anyone who has known someone who died by suicide has experienced firsthand the shockwaves that can level entire communities in the aftermath.

Suicide prevention is difficult because it is almost entirely dependent on self-reporting. We never truly know what goes on in another person’s mind unless they tell us. As someone who has struggled with suicidal ideation since I was very young, I learned early that this is not something that is typically shared with others. At first, I assumed suicidal ideation was normal- that everyone had suicidal thoughts sometimes and just didn’t discuss it because it didn’t affect them the way it affected me. I assumed that if I shared what I was feeling, I would be seen as weak. Then there was the way people talked about suicide or how it was portrayed in media – it was mocked and seen as cowardly or selfish. Later, when I started talking to doctors, there was the fear that I could be hospitalized or sent away and labeled as ‘crazy’ if I told them.

In addition to the fear of judgment are the lies we tell our support systems and ourselves. At the height of a suicidal crisis, I am totally convinced that dying would be a good thing for everyone in my life – that I am relieving them of a burden, and escaping what feels like endless pain. We don’t want to hurt our loved ones any more than we already have, so we are sparing them that pain by keeping it to ourselves. This is why “checking in on your friends” is a start, but not sufficient. If someone were to ask me how I was doing when I was in that place, I would say I was fine, a lie I saw as an act of kindness to that individual.

So, how can we reach the people who need it?

A big first step is easing our collective discomfort in talking about topics related to suicide. Like any stigmatized idea in our culture that is rarely discussed, we may not know how to talk about it. Something I often hear in my suicide prevention community outreach efforts is “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.” This is a valid feeling that comes from a real place of not knowing how to talk about something that no one ever talks about. It’s one of the reasons I designed my “Notice, Ask, Listen, Connect” suicide prevention one pager (attached to this post) to help prepare people for these kinds of conversations. It’s also about practice – the more we practice having these conversations, the easier it is to have them. Whether that means seeking out mental health advocates who speak on this topic (in person or online) and learning from how they do it, or finding folks in your community that are willing to practice conversations, experience will help you to feel more prepared if/when these situations arise.

Another step is educating ourselves and others in our community on warning signs, and what to do if we notice them in someone we know. There are many interactions that occur on a semi-regular basis within a community where someone could notice a change in behavior – maybe it’s your hairdresser or barber who you see once a month, your favorite barista or bartender who you see a few times a week, the guy you make small talk with at the service station where you fill up your tank, or the lady who brings the cookies to church every Sunday. In a community where paths cross frequently, there are many opportunities to notice when people act differently. Here are some things we can look for:

• Talking about wanting to die, feeling hopeless or having no reason to live
• Obtaining lethal means such as stockpiling pills or buying a gun
• Talking about feeling trapped, being in unbearable pain, or being a burden to others
• Increased use of alcohol or drugs
• Acting unusually anxious, agitated, or behaving recklessly
• Withdrawing or feeling isolated

If we notice these warning signs in someone, they may be considering suicide. It is important to always ask them directly “Are you having thoughts of suicide?” One of the biggest myths surrounding suicide prevention is that talking about suicide will cause them to do it. In reality, avoiding the subject only perpetuates the taboo around talking about suicide. Asking someone directly can signal that you are willing to discuss this topic and can create a space where they can talk about what they may be feeling. Finding out the seriousness of the situation is more important than escaping a briefly uncomfortable social exchange.

After we ask the question, we must also listen. Let the person share their feelings and thoughts without passing judgment. Make a point to acknowledge their pain as real and valid, even if you do not fully understand it. When in a suicidal crisis, the thoughts and feelings we are experiencing may not be proportionate to the situation or seem grounded in reality, but they feel so real in that moment. Refrain from shaming or trying to guilt the other person out of doing it, they likely already have a plan and adding to their sense of guilt and shame will not deter them. Instead, try saying things like:

• “I can see that you are in a lot of pain right now”
• “That is a lot to be dealing with on your own”
• “Your feelings are real and valid, thank you for trusting me”
• “I’m sorry that you are experiencing this”

You are likely not a mental health professional, and no one expects you to be. After noticing a warning sign, asking directly to understand the severity, and listening non-judgmentally, it is time to connect them to resources that can best help them. 988 is the national suicide prevention hotline and is always a good option to share with people, it is available by call or text. If something more specific comes up while you are listening, here are more targeted resources that you could direct them to:

• Wisconsin Farm Center- 24/7 Farmer Wellness Hotline: 888-901-2558
• National Youth Crisis Hotline: (800) 442-HOPE (4673)
• Trevor Lifeline (LGBTQ+): 1-866-488-7386 or Text START to 678-678
• Solstice House (24/7 peer support non-crisis warmline): (608) 244-5077
• nowmattersnow.org and preventsuicidewi.org/find-help

If suicide prevention depends on self-reporting, then we must build communities where people feel they can share the darkest thoughts in their mind. That is what makes suicide a community issue. We all have a role to play by signaling that we are safe people and creating spaces where people can show up as their authentic selves, and ask for help.

I am 10 years into my second chance at life. Recovery is a journey, not a destination, and it is one that I will be pursuing the rest of my years. I tried to take my own life in July of 2014. Here I am in July of 2024, able to see so much beauty in life with a full heart and immense gratitude.

Being a suicide attempt survivor doesn’t mean I had suicidal thoughts a long time ago, but I don’t have thoughts like that anymore. Being a survivor means I still have those thoughts, and I’m committed to living life no matter how painful it can be. It means I’ve developed the skills I need to cope and survive; it means I do the work every day to stay alive and stay present in the moment; it means I’ve built a support network that I can lean on when things get difficult. The fact that I am celebrating 10 years since my suicide attempt is a testament to myself for having built a life worth living.

Beyond that, I’ve also seen my transition from merely surviving to actively thriving. Back then, I used nearly all my energy to just survive the moment. And I survived every moment, one day at a time. I recognize this as an amazing accomplishment in myself and others like me. Now, with all those years of practice behind me, and still a lifetime more of practice ahead, I have the energy to do so much more than survive. I have energy to plan and visualize a future for myself, something that wasn’t possible even 5 years ago. Perhaps most importantly, that future includes inspiring hope in others by showing that recovery is possible.

Lately, I’ve been noticing these beautiful flowers that I’d never seen before. And then I wonder, is it really that I’ve never seen them before, or were they always there and my heart was not open to their beauty? Had I locked something away that closed me off to so many beautiful things around me? The part of me that could only notice the pain and the darkness, that I’ve always felt was unlovable, that tried to end the suffering 10 years ago, she is still and always will be a part of me. I’m celebrating 10 years not just because I want to celebrate life (which I try and do each and every day), but because learning to embrace and love that part of myself has opened my life up to so much more than I ever realized was possible.

Today, I will sit with past Hannah and hug her, and maybe catch a sunset with so many colors that I can now see and take in. I’m so proud of her resilience these past 10 years.

I started making my bed every day when I was 19 years old. It became a daily practice for me at a time in my life when I was in a deep depression, and constantly felt guilty for lacking the energy to do anything. Even if I do nothing else with my day, at least I’ve accomplished one thing: I’ve made my bed. Let me explain.

Depression is complex and multi-faceted. It’s not just feeling sad – it’s these seemingly endless cycles of barely having enough energy to exist followed by feeling overwhelmed with guilt that you’ve accomplished nothing with your day. It’s feeling ashamed when everyone around you is seemingly productive, while it takes you hours to convince yourself to even get out of bed and live the day. And these cycles reinforce themselves. The less energy you have, the less you accomplish, and the guiltier you feel. The more you feel consumed by guilt, the less energy you have and the less motivation you have to do something about it.

I still remember sitting in group therapy with a room full of people struggling in ways similar to me, and being handed a piece of paper with a long list of ideas of things we could do to care for ourselves. There were over 200 items on this list: things like ‘take a walk,’ ‘talk to a loved one’, ‘brush your hair’, and ‘make your bed’. It was an exercise in something everyone in that room was very unfamiliar with – being kind to oneself – and a challenge to find one item on the list that we could do for ourselves before the next session. Even if we could not bear to exist, could we just do one thing on the list? Doing one simple task counted as an accomplishment, counted as being productive and working on ourselves.

That idea was a seed, planted in my brain, that has grown magnificently over the years. The nature of my reality as a depressive is that it can be hard for me to exist. It can take a lot of my energy just to live in this world. But if I lack the ability to do anything else with my day, I can at least make my bed. I can accomplish at least one thing and that helps me break the cycle of guilt and shame. Instead of drowning in the guilt that I’ve lost another day completely to the depression, I can say to myself “No, I did something today – I made my bed.” While that may seem small to the average person, it is so incredibly powerful to me.

To this day, I make my bed every day. And when things are difficult for me in the winter, I’ve still done at least one thing with my day. That one thing is so powerful because it is a wedge that I use to break the cycle and stop the depression spiral before it overwhelms me.

As winter approaches and fall comes to an end, I’ve been reflecting on this annual practice I’ve been doing for about 3-4 years now. Fall is my favorite season because it’s this beautiful reminder that nothing lasts forever, not even the darkness. The fall colors that happen every year brighten up my day-to-day existence and splash color into a world I so often see in shades of grey. During fall, you cannot drive to work or go for a walk without being confronted with the stunning beauty and color that exists in nature. Even when I feel so far removed from the world around me, I have to admit that life is beautiful because each tree I walk under is now a stained-glass window. The leaves crunch beneath my feet, the scents of autumn in the cool air fill my lungs, and I am in awe of the splendor around me. How do I capture this feeling? How do I save how I feel in this moment for the dark of winter when I will need it the most?

As a depressive, I know winters will be hard for me. The lack of light, everything dead and dormant, nothing growing, cold temperatures that keep you inside, none of these things are good for depression. Since I know it will be difficult, I spend a good amount of time preparing for it. One of the things I’ve started doing as preparation is collecting the most beautiful leaves I find on my walks and pressing them in a book for later.

 Then, when everything is dead, I pull out my dried leaves and I hang them up in my window, so that I will still have that visual reminder that there is beauty in this world even when I can’t see it around me. It’s become this annual practice for me. During fall, I go for long walks and try to lose myself in the brilliant colors of the leaves and search for the best leaves that strike me to take home with me. I try to stay in that moment for as long as I can and save a little reminder of it for later when I know I’ll need it.

I’ve said to friends, “I’m basically a little kid running around collecting pretty leaves.” And it’s true that I’ve come across 4-year-olds on my walks with fists full of the pretty leaves they’ve collected, as my hands are also filled with pretty leaves. But this practice has nothing to do with age. It is simply a practice of identifying something that fills me with joy, embracing it without shame, and saving some of that joy in a way that allows me to revisit it later. I have the awareness and knowledge that there will be a time where it will be harder for me to experience joy, which is what makes this practice so important for me.

I was first exposed to the idea of ‘Radical Hope’ while listening to John Green’s podcast The Anthropocene Reviewed as I cooked dinner in my kitchen during the Covid-19 pandemic. I can’t remember which episode it was, but this concept that he introduced has stayed with me for years after. ‘Radical Hope’ means that even in situations that seem hopeless, you choose to have hope anyway. Green argues that in a world with a global pandemic, climate change, war, and injustice all around us, it is a natural response to feel hopeless. So, choosing to have hope, despite all of this, is indeed a radical act. And it is by choosing to have hope that we can continue to live in this world.

As a depressive, a lot of my hopelessness comes from within, and it has been there for as long as I can remember. This is compounded by whatever external factors are also making me feel hopeless. If I’m not careful, I can find myself drowning in hopelessness to the point that I am completely immobilized. And often, I have found myself in a place where it seems like it would be less effort to just succumb to the hopelessness and give up on life entirely. That is where Radical Hope comes in, and why it resonated with me so much when I first heard that podcast episode.

Hope is necessary to my survival. Hope is what keeps me here at my lowest points. Hope is suicide prevention. But how do you have Hope when a major symptom of your mental illness is hopelessness? You make a radical choice – you choose to have hope anyway.

I’m making it sound too easy. It’s a practice, and it’s hard work. I post reminders for myself everywhere. There’s a note posted on my dresser, so I see it first thing when I wake up and last thing when I go to sleep. There’s a note with my toothbrush and toothpaste, so I see the reminder again as I get ready for the day and as I wind down for the night. This last year was difficult for me, so having that visual reminder every day helped. To purposefully make space and take a few seconds every day to choose hope on days when I could not feel it, made a difference. It’s a reminder to be mindful and intentional about how I live each day.

In a life that is often plagued by hopelessness, I’ve found power in knowing that I can choose to have hope anyway. And so can you.

September is Suicide Prevention Month. As a suicide attempt survivor, I feel compelled to share my story because I believe that doing so can prevent suicide. We are all on our own journeys, and not everyone is yet in a place where they can share theirs – there are a lot more of us survivors out here than people may realize. Since I am able, I must speak up, for all of us.

Ten years ago, I was living (struggling) with unmanaged depression, attempting to treat it but not getting anywhere. I hadn’t yet learned the tools to cope with the overwhelming feelings I had. I was in so much pain all the time that I couldn’t feel anything else. I didn’t use lotion because I couldn’t feel how dry my skin was; I didn’t eat meals because I couldn’t feel how hungry I was; I felt lonely because I couldn’t feel all the love people were trying to give me. All I felt was the crushing sadness and loneliness, all I felt was pain, and no one around me could see it since “it was all in my head”. It was a weight pushing down on me all the time, it made it hard to move, to do anything, to even get out of bed. It felt as if it had always been there, and it would go on forever, and that there was no hope that things could be any different.

Nine years ago, I attempted suicide to escape the pain and got placed in an Intensive Outpatient treatment program (IOP). That treatment program, and the skills that Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) taught me to help me cope with the depression every day, changed the trajectory of my life. The core concept of ‘dialectics,’ that two seemingly contradictory things can both be true, saved my life. I had thought my story was only one of pain and that I couldn’t bear for it to continue. Treatment taught me that there is so much more to this world than my pain. Now, I am proud to say that my story is NOT over.

In the years since, the work on myself has never ceased. I must constantly do the work to stay in a good place. The depression is still there, too, but it no longer takes up so much space that I can’t feel anything else. The meds have helped, but the therapy and practice of self-care have helped more. I am a depressive, AND I can still experience joy. The depression is always there, AND I have hope. Both can be true.

I discovered cooking, and the power of being a creative force in this world instead of a self-destructive one, the ability to lose yourself to the ingredients in a daily mindfulness practice. Food became a way to incorporate joy into my life every day, and the use of seasonal ingredients became this beautiful way to celebrate being alive right here in this moment.

I discovered sobriety, and the recognition that substances will always be a superficial fix in the short term but not sustainable in the long term. Understanding that, as an addict, I will always desire to cover up the pain of the depression with whatever substance I can get my hands on helped clear the way for me to thrive in recovery. Now, I look for the things in life that I want more than alcohol and the brief reprieve it can give to me. Amazingly, there are more and more things that I want in life as my story continues.

I rediscovered my support network, the people who had always been there when I was in too dark a place to see it.  My family and friends, who are willing to learn how to reach me when the depression makes me unreachable, help to anchor me on this earth.

I discovered my identity as a survivor, and the power in sharing my story with people. We are convinced we are alone in our darkness until we hear someone else has struggled like we have. We think there is no way out until someone shares how they made it out. We think that we cannot possibly survive all this pain, until someone stands up and says, “I survived.” Telling my story has the power to plant a seed of hope in someone who has given up – I know, because of the seeds of hope that were planted in me when I needed it most.

As much as I must thank all the people who have supported me over the last decade, I also must thank myself. I’ve worked hard over the years to take it one day at a time; and on the hard days, one hour at a time, or even one minute at a time. It is only because I was able to survive all those minutes that I am here now, to tell you that My Story Is Not Over. In fact, it is just beginning.

When my brother and his fiancé first asked me to make the cake for their July wedding, I knew instantly it would involve black caps. My first thought was actually “Perfect! That’s peak black cap season!” Luckily, when I sat down with them to consult on what their wedding cake would be, they favored a dark chocolate and raspberry flavor profile so when I let them know that wild black raspberries would be in season at that time of year, they easily agreed to my suggestion. A local ingredient, picked by hand from the very land where the wedding was going to take place, what a unique and beautiful way to celebrate their love.

I wanted to use black caps initially because they are one of my favorite ingredients. They are such a special flavor that I love sharing with people. In the weeks before the wedding, as I spent hours at a time picking them, it occurred to me that this ingredient was the perfect choice for a more poetic reason, too. After all, my brother is a writer, so I better come up with a good metaphor to share with him and his wife. So, come along with me as I describe the process of picking these berries, and the metaphor will unfold.

Black caps, or wild black raspberries, are a wild native crop. Part of what makes them so special is that they cannot be cultivated, they can only be foraged. Since they cannot intentionally be grown, you have to know where they like to grow and find them. They love growing on the edges of forests, because they need plenty of both sun and shade. They grow in brambles, thick bushes full of thorns, and they fruit during July, at one of the hottest points of the summer.  The juicier berries are found deeper into the bramble where they are more protected from animals who eat them. So, to pick these berries, you have to be willing to be out in temperatures upwards of 85 degrees in long sleeves, long pants, and tall socks to stay protected from the thorns. It is hot, sweaty, and not very comfortable; but the flavor is so worth it. I have a mantra that I repeat to myself while picking, “Do It For The Black Caps”. So even when I emerge from the bramble onto a wasps’ nest and get stung three times, I keep picking. Do It For The Black Caps. When the birds start screaming and swooping because I’ve accidentally gotten too close to their nest, I swerve but keep picking. Do It For The Black Caps.

Despite all this discomfort, I love picking these berries. For me, it is a meditative practice. Because when I go into the bramble, it’s like my own escape from this world where I lose track of all space and time and my sole focus is negotiating with nature to get the berries and capture that special flavor. I don’t take my phone with me, or a watch. I emerge from the bramble, and I have to take a few minutes to get my bearings and figure out where I am exactly because I’ve traveled a great distance twisting through those thorns without realizing it. Over an hour has gone by – and my mind was at peace.

The berry plants are recognizable at a distance because of this arching green branch that emerges from the base of the branch with the berries. That arching branch is actually next year’s growth. As you pick, you must be mindful and protective of next year’s growth or you will trample the very plant you could get berries from the following year. You have to be willing to confront whatever obstacles nature might throw at you, whether it’s wasps or birds protecting their nests. You have to be willing to endure the scrapes and cuts from the thorns and the oppressive heat and buzzing mosquitos. But you do it all for the black caps.

I don’t have much experience with love, so that wasn’t something I could really speak to when toasting my brother and his bride. But I have a lot of experience picking black caps. And as I was picking the berries for their wedding cake, I thought how I could easily trade out “black caps” for “love”. When you’re looking for a life partner, you’re looking for someone who’s willing to go into the bramble with you. Someone who is willing to endure the thorns and the mosquitos and the heat because they want that same flavor you’re chasing. Do It For The Black Caps. Do it for love. And as you build that life together, you have to be mindful and protective of the new growth that emerges in one another. Do it for love. You have to confront the wasps’ nests or whatever obstacles life throws at you, together. Do it for love. And, maybe, you lose yourself in the bramble with your partner and find that escape from the world whenever you need it.

Congratulations, Joe and Ash, on your commitment to do it for the black caps, to do it for love.

Matthew Johnstone’s book and narrated video are still one of the best illustrations of depression that I’ve seen and have helped me conceptualize my own depression in the years since I first saw it. The video is less than five minutes and teaches a lot about what symptoms of depression can look like in everyday life and how treatment can be effective in lessening these symptoms – give it a watch to make better sense of the rest of this post.

There are a few reasons why this conceptualization of depression resonated with me. First, I was drawn to the idea that the depression exists external to the self. I am a depressive, but I am not my depression. My depression is not my personality, though it has a definite presence in my life, just like the black dog.

Second, my depression may be a constant in my life but the size and shape of it can change. So, I have a black dog, and his name is depression. Sometimes, he is the size of a house, and his weight crushes me and paralyzes my life. Sometimes, he is like a German shepherd, trotting beside me and following me everywhere I go so that I am always aware of his presence. And, sometimes, he is a small puppy that can fit in the palm of my hand. But all the time, there are things that I can and must do to affect his size.

Finally, embracing the black dog opened up my path to healing and developing the skills to live with it. I had to start owning that I have a black dog, instead of always saying “I’m fine.” I had to start letting myself feel my feelings and learn ways to communicate them genuinely to my support network around me. I take medication, and that helps, but it was not THE answer – the skills-building was absolutely essential to learning to live with my black dog.

I like to say that my secret is that I’m always depressed. I embrace that I have a black dog, and he’s always there. I’m also putting in the work every day to keep that black dog as small and playful as possible – he can be a part of my life without dominating it.

While working on setting up my website, I struck up a conversation with someone at the café as I wrote. I shared with him the name of my website – ‘Diary of A Depressive’. He questioned the name, wondering if it shouldn’t have a more positive title. Shouldn’t it be something that sounded more hopeful?

‘Well,’ I told him, ‘This website is my story. And, fundamentally, my story is one of hope.’

I told him to have a seat so I could explain it further, because my stories are never short. My website is called ‘Diary of a Depressive’ because I am a depressive. That is the nature of my reality. By showing that I am a depressive and can still function day-to-day in the world and even thrive, I am sharing a message of hope. We can give hope to others who are struggling by modeling that recovery and healing is possible, and that the suffering won’t go on forever.  When I share my story, I’m reminding folks that the darkness doesn’t last forever.

Ultimately, I’m also reminding myself of that. Because even from a place of healing and recovery, I recognize that the darkness will always be a part of my life in some way. And I know that there will be times when once again it is overwhelming. That’s why I spend time learning healthy ways to cope and live with it. And that’s partly why I tell my story – to codify my hope.

Maybe if I write it all down, when I find myself in a place where I don’t feel it, I can go back and read what I’ve written and remember that hope is possible for all of us. When the darkness returns to me, I can remind myself of what I’ve overcome and accomplished. That if I’ve done those things before then I can do them again.

‘Diary of a Depressive’ is my story of hope. Hope for others and importantly, hope for myself.

PS. Shoutout to Clark, who willingly sat down at my table in the café to listen and responded, ‘Is that an original line? Write that down!’

My depression makes the past and the future dangerous places for my mind to dwell. The past is filled with things that I cannot change that I will ruminate on endlessly if I don’t check myself. The future is filled with things outside my control and “what-if” spirals that can rapidly increase my anxiety if I’m not careful. That’s why staying in the present is the safest place for my mind – it’s where I can be at peace. But living in the moment is a practice, it’s something I work at, and certain activities are more conducive to this practice.

That’s where “mindfulness” comes in. Mindfulness is a practice or type of meditation where you focus intensely on what you are sensing and feeling in the moment. I first learned about this in treatment, but it is something that anyone can do the bring their busy mind a moment of peace. One of my favorite activities consists of working through your five senses and focusing on each sense at a time and identifying what it is and how it feels. Mindfulness can also involve a variety of breathing exercises which help you to breathe deeply and increase much needed oxygen to your brain.

Last week, I planted my herb garden at home. Cutting fresh herbs is one of those activities that grounds me in the moment and forces me to appreciate the here-and-now. As you cut fresh herbs, the aromatic oils in the plant dissipate into the air that you are breathing. So, as I’m working with my hands, touching the leaves as I cut off what I need, I’m also smelling the aroma, seeing the splendor of the new growth, hearing the clip of the shears, and tasting the flavor that I will be adding to a dish.

At work, my favorite herb to harvest is basil. We have two 6’x6’ patches of basil, so when you start cutting, you are totally surrounded by the basil. As I breathe deeply, and work my focus through my five senses, I’m taking the basil in. It’s at that moment, when I almost feel the basil in my soul, that I feel so alive. My five senses are overwhelmed by the basil, and nothing else in the world matters. I can think only of basil and my mind is at peace.

At home, my herb garden is on a much smaller scale more suited to my living situation. But it is still a refuge I seek out before each meal as I take a moment for myself and let my mind be carried away from the world, even if just for a minute.

Self-care is about survival for me.

One of the transformational things I learned in treatment is the practice of self-care and learning ways to incorporate that into my daily life. As a depressive, there is a darkness within me that is always working to destroy me – which is why it is so important that I actively do things to care for myself to counteract that force. If I don’t practice self-care, the cumulative result can be a mental health crisis. Self-care is something that I have to do to manage my depression day-to-day.

Self-care looks different for different people, and it can vary widely depending on what works for the individual. For me, in the darkest months of winter, and when my depression is at its heaviest, self-care is taking the time to shower and wash my hair when I’ve let it go a few too many days. Self-care is doing the laundry so that the piles in my room don’t get too big and overwhelming. Self-care is cooking a meal for myself that is full of nutrition and deliciousness. Self-care is going for a walk around the block so I’m getting some exercise and fresh air.

To illustrate my point: this past winter felt like one of my most difficult winters in recent years. I felt like I was at one of my lowest points, and that I didn’t have any hope. My sister and roommate, who bears witness to most of my depression symptoms, thought this was one of my best winters yet from our time living together. Despite how I was feeling inside, she saw a lot less of the physical symptoms she usually sees in me that time of year.

So, what explains this discrepancy? This past winter, I lost one of my part-time jobs, which opened up one day a week that I could spend on self-care and getting caught up on all of the chores I usually let build up because I don’t have the energy to deal with them. So even though I felt worse, I was actually doing a much better job at managing my depression each week. I survived one of my hardest winters because I had the time and space to take care of myself.

Self-care is beneficial to everyone, and I encourage everyone to practice caring for themselves in whatever way works best for you. And for someone who struggles with depression, self-care is a necessity for survival – it is by caring for myself consistently over time that I keep the darkness at bay.

The chives have started coming up – and all at once I am reminded of two important things: that I have survived the winter, and that spring is indeed coming.

Chives are one of my favorite ingredients. And, as I like to remind anyone who will listen, they are the first and last crop of the season. They have this delicate onion flavor that can add something really beautiful to a dish. But, more than that, for me they symbolize hope. Being the first crop of the season, they signal to us that the best is yet to come. The season is just starting for all of the lovely ingredients from the earth that I will soon have at my fingertips.

As the snow begins to melt, the darkness of winter starts to fade away, and the days get longer, the chives start coming up. There is just something about sunshine that dramatically increases my will to live. And as each day starts having more and more of it, I feel the hope growing inside of my heart. It takes less and less time each morning to convince myself I want to be alive and to get out of bed. And the chives keep growing.

Soon, they will start to have the most beautiful blossoms. Soon, the other crops will start to come up too. Soon, it will be the height of summer and I will have more tomatoes than I know what to do with. Soon.

And later, when the growing season eventually winds down, as it does each year, the chives will still be coming up. They are a hearty plant that can endure cold weather and harsh conditions. They can survive the first few snowfalls. And even when they go dormant for the winter, they survive still, just waiting for the first few signs of spring to come back up to the surface.

Chives are survivors, just like me.

Here’s a link to the song, give it a listen before reading.

When I heard this AJR song on the radio when it first came out, I loved it. Not just for the catchy pop tune that instantly got stuck in my head, but for the way it painted my reality in a way I had never heard in a song before. More than anything, “Way Less Sad” is a song of celebration – the trumpets are blasting and you feel the excitement to reach this stage in life when you are way less sad. And that that is an achievement.

Part of my daily life as a depressive is taking my anti-depressants. I’ve taken pills like these every day for well over a decade. I’ve heard the term “Happy Pills”; I’m not sure if it is still used today, but when I first started taking them it was common. It always bothered me because taking these pills does not make you happy. You don’t take your dose and feel a rush of happiness. What anti-depressants do is much more basic – they lessen the depression symptoms enough that you can go to therapy and do the work to build towards something like happiness. In essence, the medication makes you “WAY less sad”.

Don’t get me wrong, that “way less sad” feeling feels pretty good when you’ve been crushed by the depression for months or even years. And it gives you the energy to start developing coping skills that you can use in your daily life to start to feel better and function better in society. What I love about the AJR song is that it is a celebration of reaching that point – as the trumpets blare, “Don’t you love it, don’t you love it? No, I ain’t happy yet, but I’m way less sad.” It’s not about celebrating happiness, but that middle point when you get enough relief from the depression to start doing something about the happiness piece.

I’ve tried many different anti-depressants over the years, and I’ll probably try a few more before I’m done. And there’s a moment when that new anti-depressant kicks in and you start to feel WAY less sad, and you start to see all the possibilities around you that you couldn’t see before because the depression was too all-consuming. And it’s a beautiful moment. I’m not happy yet, the journey is not over; but it’s almost like I can hear trumpets playing as I walk outside and take in this new world around me that I hadn’t been able to see for a while. And it’s this moment that this song perfectly captures.

It’s a feeling/moment that I’m struggling to capture even after four paragraphs, so hearing it on the radio made me feel seen in ways that I don’t normally encounter in mainstream media.