Always checking in-healthy reflection!

Lots of people talk about reflection, and the kind of reflection that I often like to do is to keep myself “in check”. I say that with a humble chuckle, in the back of my mind, because it sure is challenging to keep myself from spiraling into those intrusive thoughts! 😅

As you may know dear reader, I suffer from severe depression.

🌿 When Your World Quietly Shrinks

There was a time when my anxiety felt… manageable. Not pleasant, not easy, but familiar — like background noise I’d learned to live with. Half my life was spent navigating generalized anxiety, and even with a diagnosis, I still found ways to move through the world.

But things shifted after I lost my job at Walmart.

It wasn’t just the paycheck or the routine that disappeared. It was the constant hum of human contact — the small talk at the registers, the coworkers you nod to in the break room, the customers who remind you that the world is bigger than your living room. I didn’t realize how much those tiny interactions kept me tethered until they were gone.

Working from home should have felt like a break, but instead it became a kind of quiet collapse. My social world didn’t vanish overnight; it just slowly thinned out, like a plant that stopped getting sunlight. Days blurred together. Conversations dwindled. And the anxiety that once had outlets — movement, noise, people — suddenly had nowhere to go.

It’s strange how isolation sneaks up on you. One day you’re fine, and the next you’re wondering when your life got so small.

Losing that job didn’t just change my schedule. It changed the shape of my days, the rhythm of my thoughts, and the way I connect with the world. And I’m still learning how to rebuild from that — gently, intentionally, and without blaming myself for being human in a season that demanded too much silence.

Where do, I go from here?

 Caregiving is meaningful, but it can also be consuming. And when your home becomes your workplace, your sanctuary, and your duty station all at once, it’s easy to forget that you’re allowed to step outside of it.

But here’s the thing I keep reminding myself: There is always a door.

A door, that I am not quite fond of. I somehow became desensitized to the outside world, including my own personal spaces. Perhaps that is depression in a nutshell, and the irony saying that as if I am not familiar with depressions grip. 

I know depression well. I know how it can make me feel isolated from the world, even from the spaces that once felt safe. But that’s the thing — depression makes me feel like I don’t have a safe space at all, not even among the people I consider close to me. Maybe it’s because depression convinces me that I’m completely alone. That no one is coming to find me in this deep hole in the ground.

Ever seen Maid? Yeah — that hole. That’s where I am. 

It’s dark. It’s cold. And the voices above me are muffled, like they’re coming from another world. My body feels paralyzed. I try to move, to reach out, to engage with others, but all I manage is the smallest motion. It’s like I’m trapped inside this body, this brain that feels void of life, functioning only on the bare chemical processes that keep me alive.