The Pain I Didn’t Know How to Carry

I grew up in a time when talking about mental health just wasn’t normal. People didn’t go to counseling. You didn’t admit to needing help. If you even mentioned anxiety or depression, people would look at you like something was wrong with you. The message was clear: you keep your problems to yourself, you push through, you stay strong.

So that’s what I did.

I learned to smile when I didn’t feel like smiling. I learned to say “I’m fine” when I was anything but fine. I pushed everything down and told myself I could handle it.

But I couldn’t.

When I lost my dad at just 11 years old, my world turned upside down. The grief was so heavy that I didn’t know how to carry it, so I buried it. I went through abuse as a small child and more trauma as a teenager, and I told myself I just had to get over it. Then came a marriage that was full of its own struggles, one that eventually ended in divorce. I became a single mom, doing my best to raise my kids while quietly falling apart inside.

I didn’t know how to process any of it. I didn’t know how to sit with my grief or my anger without feeling like it would swallow me whole. I stayed busy. I stayed strong. I told myself I didn’t have time to break down.

But here’s what no one told me back then: When you don’t give yourself permission to fall apart in healthy ways, you eventually break in unhealthy ones.

Depression and anxiety became my constant background noise. They whispered to me all day, every day:

“You’re not enough.”

“You’re failing.”

“You can’t handle this.”

“You’re all alone.”

And eventually, I just wanted the noise to stop.

That’s when I started self-medicating. It felt harmless at first. Just a way to take the edge off. Just a way to quiet my mind for a little while. For the first time in years, I felt… okay.

But what started as a temporary escape slowly became my go-to solution for every hard feeling. It became my comfort. My relief. My way to numb the pain I didn’t know how to face.

And then it became my prison.

I never expected that. I never thought that trying to survive would lead me down a road that nearly destroyed me. What made me feel okay in the moment slowly stole from me. It stole my peace, my confidence, my relationships, my self-respect. I became someone I didn’t even recognize—someone I never meant to be.

If you are reading this and carrying grief, trauma, or pain that you don’t know what to do with, I want to grab your face and tell you this:

Please get help before it’s too late.

Don’t wait until the thing that numbs your pain becomes the thing that takes everything from you.

Talk to someone. Find a counselor. Go to therapy. Ask for medication if you need it. There is no shame in needing help—there is so much strength in it. We live in a time now where mental health is talked about more openly, and I am so thankful for that. It means you don’t have to suffer in silence like I did. It means you don’t have to go down the same road I did.

I am living proof that you can come back from rock bottom. But I am also living proof that the road there is brutal, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

If my story can be anything, I want it to be a warning and a lifeline. You can stop the cycle. You can choose healing over hiding. You can take back your story.

You matter. Your life matters. Your healing matters. And I promise you, the fight to get better is worth it.