A Note for the Living

    As you read this, I honestly don’t know where I am right now. Maybe I’m lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as the weight of my thoughts pins me down. Maybe I’m forcing a smile for someone, trying to convince them—and myself—that I’m okay. Or maybe I’m somewhere in between, lost in that fragile space where hope flickers but doesn’t quite take hold.

    Or, I might not even be breathing anymore, and this will be my last words.

    I know how heavy life can feel. The kind of heavy that makes you question if taking another breath is worth it. I’ve been there. Some nights, the silence in my room feels deafening, and my mind becomes a battlefield I’m too tired to fight in. I lie awake, haunted by thoughts of everything I’ve done wrong and everything I’ll never be. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To carry all this pain and pretend you’re fine. To feel like you’re screaming for help, but no one can hear you.

    That’s why Zevia’s song, “If Depression Gets the Best of Me,” hit me so hard. When she says, “Mom, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just can’t hold on anymore,” it’s like she’s reading a page from my own story. How many times have I wanted to say those words but couldn’t because I didn’t want to hurt the people I love? How many times have I felt like I was drowning, but instead of reaching for help, I just sank deeper, hoping the pain would somehow disappear?

    But here’s the truth I’ve come to understand: no matter how overwhelming the darkness feels, it isn’t permanent. I’m not saying it’s easy. God knows it’s not. Some days, getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. Eating feels like a chore. Talking to people feels impossible. And yet, I’m still here. And so are you.

    I know how easy it is to believe that your pain is invisible or that your existence doesn’t matter. But it does. You matter. I matter. Even when it feels like we’re just drifting through life, barely holding on, we’re still here. And that’s something.

    You might be like me, carrying guilt for not being the perfect friend, the perfect child, the perfect partner. Maybe you’ve been sitting in the shower, letting the water hide your tears because you don’t want anyone to see how much you’re struggling. Maybe you’ve stared at your phone, typing out a message for help but deleting it because you’re scared of being a burden. I’ve done all those things, too.

    But here’s what I want you to know: we don’t have to fight alone. I’m learning that it’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to let someone else carry some of the weight, even if it’s just for a little while. It doesn’t make us weak; it makes us human.

    Sometimes, when I’m at my lowest, I imagine a future version of me—someone who has made it through the storm. Maybe she’s sitting in her favorite coffee shop, laughing with friends. Maybe she’s standing in the sunlight, feeling it warm her skin. Maybe she’s writing this message to you, telling you that it’s worth it to keep going. That version of me feels so far away, but I’m trying to believe she’s real.

    

    I want you to imagine your future self, too. Picture them smiling, not because they’re pretending, but because they’ve found peace. They’re there, waiting for you. And every step you take, no matter how small, brings you closer to them.

    If you’ve ever felt like leaving a note like Zevia’s, I want you to pause. Write it if you need to, but don’t let it be your last word. Let it be a starting point. Share it with someone—a friend, a parent, a therapist. Let them in. Let them remind you that you’re not alone.

    

    Because one day, you’ll look back at this moment and realize it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of something stronger, something brighter. I’m still learning how to hold on, but if I can, so can you.

    

    You are loved. You are enough. And even if I don’t know you, I believe in you. Keep fighting. For me, for yourself, for the person you’re destined to become.