stephanie-mitchell-hughes

Wrestling with Depression and Suicide Alone in the Dark

Thu, 30 Nov 2023 06:42:54 GMT

Trigger warning: This article discusses suicide and suicidal thinking. If you are suicidal, call 988; Go to your nearest hospital emergency room; or Text HOME to 741741 for 24/7 crisis support.

“I wrestle alone in the dark, in the deep dark. And that only I can know, only I can understand my own condition. You live with the threat, you tell me you live with the threat of my extinction. Leonard, I live with it too. This is my right; it is the right of every human being.” Virginia Woolfe Mrs. Dalloway/The Hours

“Come on, come on; I see no changes, wake up in the morning and I ask myself is life worth living, should I blast myself.” Tupac Changes

Stephen ‘tWitch’ Boss’ tragic suicide continues to be minutely dissected to determine if there were warning signs that he was suicidal. As with other high profile people who have died by suicide, why looms large. Why would intelligent, accomplished, and seemingly vibrant people end their lives? However, why is not the only question that should be considered. In the aftermath of a completed suicide, family, friends, and others are left wondering how. How did they miss so called red flags or warning signs that suicide was immient? How do we collectively and individually help family members forge a path forward after a loved one dies by suicide?

Within hours of Mr. Boss’ death, news stories on red flags or warnings that a person is suicidal proliferated across the airwaves and social media. Though well-intended, these news stories ignore STIGMA, the overarching reason that people with lived experience do not tell anyone that they are suicidal. That same STIGMA is no respecter of persons or geography. It exists regardless of country, gender, religious affiliation, ethnicity, or socioeconomic status. In certain circles, such as the legal profession, the words mental illness, suicide, and suicidal thinking are still too stigmatized to convene candid conversations.

I am not a celebrity. I am a high functioning black woman, attorney, mother, and person of faith who has lived with depression for at least 45 years with insidious episodes of suicidal thinking generously peppered throughout. Like many of my peers, I am extremely adept at concealing my depression and suicidal thoughts. Because I keep persisting as a black woman, attorney, and mother, few people, if any, know when I am wrestling with depression and suicidal thoughts alone in a dark place. They also don’t know that there are still mornings when I want to blast myself to bits before getting out of bed. Fortunately these episodes have greatly diminished giving my mind a well deserved rest. I rarely share such intimate details because:

1. I want to protect you.

2. I don’t want you to freak out.

3. You have your own problems.4. I cannot carry your emotional weight, fear, and guilt.

5. I don’t trust you.

6. You judge me and don’t believe that mental illness is a brain disease.

7. You don’t trust me or my ability to manage my mental health.

8. You will call the police or attempt to have me placed on a 72 hour hold.*

9. I can decide if I am a danger to myself or others.

10. I know that my depression and suicidal thoughts make you uncomfortable.

Choosing to die by suicide or not is solely my decision. The contradiction is that I really don’t want to end my life. For me suicide and suicidal thinking are about permanently turning off the voice that tempts and dares me to end my life. You may stop me from killing myself. But, the harsh truth is that if I want to die by suicide, I will.

So, you may wonder how to help people with lived experience who are struggling with depression, suicide, suicidal thinking or all three. Storytelling is transformative. Tell your story. Pray for guidance, healing, mental clarity, and peace. Join or lead efforts to eliminate the fear, stigma, and shame surrounding mental illness and suicide. When writing about or reporting on mental illness and suicide remember that there may not be signs, red flags, or simple answers. Dive deeper. Don’t be afraid of telling the good, bad, and ugly parts of mental illness and suicide even if the ground shakes beneath your feet. You never know who is watching, reading, or listening.

*A 72 hour hold is an involuntary mental health hospitalization imposed when it is determined that a person is a danger to themselves or others.

MENTAL HEALTH RESOURCES

For non-emergency peer assistance, mental health awareness and education call the

NAMI National HelpLine at (800) 950–6264 or text HelpLine to 62640 from 10:00 AM to 10:00PM. or

American Society for Suicide Prevention https://www.afsp.org

If you are suicidal or in crisis :

Call 988 the new Suicide Crisis Lifeline

Go to your nearest emergency room or

Text HOME to 741741 for 24/7 crisis support.

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273-TALK (8255)

How Change Changed Me

Wed, 29 Nov 2023 06:10:12 GMT

I dreaded change. Change is inconvenient, disruptive, and hardwork. It sets me on paths that I do not want to travel. Occasionally, that path includes feeling my way around in the dark. Change forces me to navigate the constantly shifting landscape that often comes with it. In my experience, transformational change happens in life’s hard places. Three of these hard places changed me and shaped my perspective on change itself.

I entered the first of the three hard places in February 2006. During that month, I started over with two children, two months of outstanding mortgage payments, an empty refrigerator, and $120.00. My marriage was over and I joined the community of solo mothers raising children alone with little to no support. This was not what I signed up for. I was raised by two parents in a solid middle class suburb. I at tended excellent schools and had other advantages that most children did not. As a solo mom, I felt ill-equipped to support my children and provide what they needed. I was so focused on supporting my children’s adjustment to our new normal, that I did not realize that I was in a hard place. A hard place is also known as a valley or wilderness experience. My personal and spiritual work is usually done in life’s hard places. Experience has taught me that I will not transition out of the hard place/wilderness/valley if I do not learn the lesson or do the work.

This hard place revealed that I was deeply depressed for nearly my entire 14 year marriage but did not know it. I have had bouts of depression since I was at least 15 years old. At that time, I did not have the language or understanding to tell my parents how I felt. During my late teens and twenties, my depressive episodes were relatively mild. Without a formal diagnosis I learned what would trigger a depressive episode and how to quickly cycle out of it. However, the depression that I uncovered in 2006 was a raging out of control beast that required ongoing medical treatment and medication. Initially, I denied the ferocity of my depression and would not take my antidepressants as prescribed. The consequences were brutal and exacted an extremely high price. Backed into a corner I had a choice: responsibly manage my mental health or continue down a dangerous and destructive path. My children needed me to be mentally and emotionally healthy. So I chose to prioritize my mental health and have never looked back.

Because of my educational and professional credentials, I thought that it would not be difficult to secure a job with a regular paycheck and health insurance. Despite my best efforts, I could not find a job. So I doubled down, expanded my network, and refined my job search. At the end of each successive year, I found myself back where I started the previous January. It took me until January 2013 to realize that I could pause and do the work or spend another year in the wilderness walking around the same circle.

On June 12, 2020, I started another journey through another hard place. That evening my father stood up, suddenly collapsed, and then died shortly after he finished eating dinner with my mother. It was the weekend of my parents’ 62nd wedding anniversary. My family is very, very small. At the time, I and other family members were in or en route to Atlanta for my aunt’s funeral. That weekend my assignment was twofold: support my cousin as she buried her last remaining parent and represent my parents who were too elderly to fly or drive 800 plus miles to Atlanta especially in the midst of the COVID19 pandemic.

I was in Atlanta and spoke to my father several times that day including shortly before he died. How could my father be alive and then dead only a few hours later. Early the following morning, I called a friend from church to inform her about my father’s death. I told her that I could not stay for my aunt’s funeral and was leaving immediately to be with my mother. My friend said that I couldn’t leave because my assignment was incomplete. She was right. I traveled to Atlanta to support my cousin and stand in for my parents. My brother and other family members left Atlanta and rushed home to be with my mother. So I stayed. Somewhere deep inside myself I found the strength to be fully present for my cousin.

My father and aunt died within the first two weeks of June. While my mother is still very much alive, losing two elders in quick succession changed the dynamic of my very small family. With my father’s death we lost our family patriarch and go to person for almost everything. The deaths of my aunt and father accelerated my transition into the role of family elder. My days of only performing tasks assigned by family elders are numbered. As the oldest, I must ensure continuity after my mother transitions. Death and mortality have set me on a well worn path that I do not want to travel. There I will process my own grief, discover who I am without parents, and come to terms with my mortality. Ten years ago I would not have had the perspective and fortitude to follow this path or do the work.

I am still on the journey through my latest hard place. A few years ago, I started thinking about winding down my professional working life. I thought that I could finally run away from my young adult children, buy a Vespa scooter, and spend several months in London. Then two years ago this month I hit a detour that set me on yet another path that I do not want to travel.

On December 3, 2020, I was diagnosed with COVID19. I was released from quarantine a few days before Christmas and slowly resumed my regular schedule. Then in February 2021, new COVID19 symptoms appeared and old ones rebounded. Eventually I was diagnosed with what is now called Long COVID. More than two years later Long COVID is still widely unknown. It is a group of new or returning COVID19 symptoms that can last months and even years. It can cause multisystem organ damage affecting the heart, kidneys, skin, respiratory system, and brain even in people with no prior history of these conditions. Some people with Long COVID develop extremely serious and life threatening medical conditions. Some experience disruptions in regular bodily functions like the menstrual cycle.

By August 2021, I was in such ragged shape that I finally agreed to take short term disability leave. After 11 months on short term disability leave, I was forced to acknowledge that I could no longer perform my job duties because of Long COVID. Since I could not return to work full-time, I was involuntarily separated from employment due to disability. At that time, I lost the comprehensive health insurance and other benefits that I desperately needed to cover my medical care. I had to apply for disability and purchase health insurance on the Market Place which severely limits my access to health care providers.

My own recovery is slow and often lonely. I have endured painful and frustrating setbacks. There are still a few dark days when it feels like I will not survive. This year I completed my sixth decade around the sun. My future is uncertain. I do not know if or how long I will be able to work. So I have temporarily shelved my plan to buy a Vespa scooter and run away to London. My journey through the hard place called Long COVID has been difficult, overwhelming, and sometimes scary. But I am determined to follow the path that I do not want to follow as it unfolds before me.

Do not pity me because I have Long COVID. I am not special. It is just another hard place that has changed my trajectory. We all have hard places. I intend to use my foundational tools to navigate Long COVID. Change is part of life.

The following are my foundational tools for navigating change and transitions:

Armor.
Faith.
Fearlessness.
Focus.
Gratitude.
Humility.
Mindfulness.
Patience.
Prayer and Meditation.
Readiness.
Self care.
Self-compassion.

*This article was presented at the 2022 ABA 16th Annual Labor and Employment Law Conference

Fences, Black Men, And Depression

Tue, 28 Nov 2023 06:00:40 GMT

As a black woman, attorney, and single mother living with depression, I thought that I had little besides race in common with black men with the same mental illness. Then I saw Fences the movie adapted from the play by August Wilson.

In Fences , Troy Maxson is a fifty-three year old black man working as a garbage collector. Troy played baseball in the Negro Leagues and even did a stint in prison. I was immediately drawn to Troy because he wore a “big apple” hat. My father and other black men in and around Troy’s generation wore these hats. Troy represents every black man in America struggling to be respected in the midst of the desolation that comes with living in a country that refuses to see him as human. On the surface, Troy is tough, blunt bordering on harsh, stubborn, and hypocritical. However, to dismiss Troy as one more angry black man who had an extra-marital affair that resulted in a child with a woman who is not his wife misses the source that is, at least in part, driving his behavior. Perhaps it was Denzel Washington’s amazing ability to step into the skin of the character, but as the movie unfolded it became increasingly clear that Troy’s hardness was actually a mask that hid his fragility, pain, and depression.

The American Psychiatric Association estimates that between five and ten percent of black men live with depression. This statistic is further compounded by the fact that within the black community depression remains the word that must not be named. Historically black men have not had a safe space to acknowledge their depression and seek the necessary treatment. They birthed other generations of black men who grew up believing that they had to compartmentalize their depression and bury it deep inside. Left untreated, depression grows into an unruly garden filled with weeds and thorns. Some black men use drugs and alcohol to blunt the physical and emotional pain that comes with depression. Others are so weighed down with hopelessness that they see suicide as their only means of escape.

This is where my path intersects with black men who live with depression. I have lived with depression for at least thirty-nine of my fifty-four years. Like Troy Maxson, I wore a mask to hide my depression. I did not tell anyone that I was depressed or that my mind lived in that gray space of suicide. As a result, my depression and constant thoughts of suicide became normal. I became expert at navigating my depression and suicidal thoughts along with daily responsibilities. My so-called coping skills worked until February 2006.

Eleven years ago, I experienced a major life shift that knocked my mask askew and exposed my depression. With that major life shift came the realization that I had been beyond clinically depressed for at least a decade. My depression was laid bare for everyone including my children to see. I had to find new ways of managing and treating my condition. This started with accepting my need for medication to treat my depression. I formed a “kitchen cabinet” of people who hold me accountable for following my treatment plan so that I am mentally strong enough to resist the voices inside my head constantly telling me to end my life. Eventually, I became strong enough to tell my story about living with depression.

Looking through Troy Maxson’s lens, I now realize that for black men their depression is just as painful, isolating, and soul sucking as mine. Like me, black men have attempted suicide or are bombarded daily with suicidal thoughts. The difference is that as a black woman it is more acceptable for me to tell my story out loud.

Now when I tell my story, I intend to speak truth to power for those who keep persisting through their depression. At the same time I will stand in the gap for black men like Troy Maxson who cannot talk about their depression and those who see suicide as their only means of escape.

So, I leave you with my personal mantra for telling my story about living with depression is #noapology #noretreat #nosurrender

A Clarion Call About Long Covid

Mon, 27 Nov 2023 06:37:32 GMT

According to the U.S. Government Accountability Office, Long COVID potentially affects between 7.7 and 23 million Americans. I am one of those millions. On December 3, 2020, I was diagnosed with COVID19. In February 2021, some of my COVID19 symptoms rebounded and I was subsequently diagnosed with what is now called Long COVID. By the beginning of August 2021, my health had further deteriorated. I finally acknowledged that I would not recover from Long COVID unless I took time off work. So I relented and took short term disability leave.

The New England Journal of Medicine called Long COVID America’s next national health disaster. According to the Brookings Institute roughly 16 million Americans of working age have Long COVID. Of that number 2 to 4 million cannot work due to this often debilitating condition. This has resulted in lost wages of approximately $170 billion dollars leaving long-haulers and those depending upon us in financial peril. I am extremely concerned about our capacity to manage and support those living with Long COVID. So I am issuing a clarion call for a community wide reckoning. That reckoning starts with understanding what Long COVID is.

Long COVID is a group of new or returning COVID19 symptoms that can last months and sometimes years. Nearly all long-haulers suffer from extreme fatigue. Long COVID can cause multisystem organ damage affecting the heart, kidneys, skin, respiratory system, and brain even in people with no prior history of such damage. Some people with Long COVID develop dangerous blood clots. Others are struggling with other serious conditions such as Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome also known as ME/CFS, strokes, and Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome commonly known as POTS. Some female long-haulers experience changes in their menstrual cycle.

My own Long COVID symptoms include cognitive impairment also known as brain fog, extreme fatigue, difficulty breathing, neurologic dysfunction, and inflammation throughout my body. I also suffer from Post-Exertional Malaise also known as PEM. This means that I am easily overexerted. Eighteen months in I continue to be crushed by fatigue, struggle cognitively, still cannot taste or smell, and have PEM. Long COVID has completely upended my life. I rarely leave home and must closely pace myself to avoid overexertion. Everyday is a balancing act. I must carefully allocate my limited energy. Sometimes I must decide if I am

going to cook dinner, shower, or do laundry. On the days that I have pulmonary maintenance, I cannot cook or take a shower. Pushing myself to do more results in overexertion. In June 2022, I pushed too hard. I have been mostly bedridden since then. Long COVID has kicked my tale for the last 547 days with no signs of stopping.

My own recovery is slow and often lonely. I have endured painful setbacks. There are still dark days when my death seems imminent. Despite these obstacles, I was determined to return to work. After one year on short term disability leave, I was forced to acknowledge that I could no longer perform my job due to Long COVID. Because I could not return to work full-time, state law mandated my involuntary separation due to disability.

The one consistent bright spot is the outstanding medical care that I receive as a patient in the Post COVID Recovery Program at The Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center. Fortunately I was an early patient in the program. It is the only such program in Columbus. All Long COVID patients are not as fortunate. They are navigating scary symptoms within systems that, though well-intentioned, do not have the capacity to help them.

The news is not all bad. Recently the Biden Administration created an office specifically focused on Long COVID. The office is part of the US Department of Health and Human Services. The function and goals of this office are detailed in the two reports released by the administration. Links to these reports can be found below. Additionally, in July 2022 the US Department of Labor initiated a virtual dialog with and solicited ideas from the public on how to support workers with Long COVID in the workplace. The comment period has ended.

Long COVID is no respecter of persons. It affects millions of Americans regardless of race, gender, age, socioeconomic status, or geography. Long COVID has compromised my health, quality of life, and economic security. It destroys careers and has forced sufferers to quit or retire early. We need to develop a comprehensive plan to address Long COVID. So I am issuing a clarion call. Directly or indirectly, Long COVID impacts all of us.

This is my clarion call about Long COVID. We have work to do.

Originally published in Columbus Underground.

One Year In: Living with #COVID19 and #LongCOVID

Sun, 26 Nov 2023 06:29:45 GMT

December 3, 2020 marked twelve months, three hundred sixty-five days, or five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of living with COVID19 and now Long COVID. It has been one of the most difficult periods of my life. By nature, I am a fighter. I fought COVID19 and now Long COVID every single day of the last twelve months. There were many days where I did not believe that I would survive. This is my story. But first an explanation and definition.

Research indicates that most patients will recover from COVID19 without complications. However, COVID19 symptoms have rebounded in ten to twenty percent of patients weeks or months after initial infection. These patients are sometimes called long-haulers and suffer from Long COVID. The World Health Organization defines Long COVID as a condition that “occurs in individuals with a history of probable or confirmed SARS-CoV-2 usually three months after the onset of COVID-19 with symptoms that last for at least two months and cannot be explained by an alternative diagnosis.” Long COVID has been called a multi-system condition that can affect the body’s cardiovascular, musculoskeletal, sensory, pulmonary, and cognitive functions.

As a solo mom and attorney, I have powered through illnesses regardless of how I felt because I had to. It is just the way that I am built. That changed on December 3, 2020 when I tested positive for COVID19. Within a few days of diagnosis my doctor ordered a Regeneron infusion to decrease the likelihood that I would be hospitalized. While I dodged hospitalization, my body still felt the full weight of the coronavirus. My blood oxygen level dropped. I slept nearly all day and night for days. I did not have the energy to climb the stairs and had to rest between the staircases in my home. Even basic tasks like taking a shower left me depleted and forced me back to bed. I was released from quarantine a few days before Christmas. At that time, I assumed that I would seamlessly resume my regular schedule of activities. I was wrong.

When I was diagnosed with COVID19, I had a regular Bikram yoga practice. Because Bikram is a demanding form of yoga, I decided not to return to class until the end of January 2021, one month after I was released from quarantine. On February 14, 2021, I went to my yoga class. At the end of class I could not get up after the last pose. My entire body felt like lead. Eventually, I managed to stand up. When I returned home, I went to bed and stayed there for three straight days. In hindsight, I realize that this incident marked the arrival of Long COVID. I tried to return to Bikram yoga multiple times but could not finish a class. In the end, I stopped going all together.

I have a very demanding job. Because of the pandemic, I work from home. During the months after I was released from quarantine, I attributed my debilitating fatigue to a grueling work schedule. Weeks later I began to experience other symptoms like difficulty breathing. Mild exertion left me winded and gasping for air. I must always carry an albuterol rescue inhaler. Because of my symptoms, I was referred to the Post COVID Recovery Clinic at The Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center. At my first appointment in May 2021, my clinic doctor was so concerned about my condition that he wanted me to work part-time for three to six months. I knew that working part-time for an extended period was a nonstarter for my employer. At that time, I resisted applying for short term disability leave. As I had with other illnesses, I lowered my head and tried to power through Long COVID.

Pulmonary testing revealed that COVID19 weakened my diaphragm and other respiratory muscles. In July 2021, I began twenty-four sessions of pulmonary rehabilitation to strengthen my pulmonary function and increase capacity. Medical testing further showed that COVID19 and Long COVID also affected my sensory and cognitive functions including my eyesight, ability to smell, and appetite. In late August 2021, my clinic doctor considered prescribing Aricept, an older medication used to treat Alzheimer’s disease, to alleviate my debilitating fatigue. Studies showed that Aricept eased the extreme fatigue experienced by many Long COVID patients. My clinic doctor also revisited the idea of taking an extended leave of absence from work so that I could begin to recover from Long COVID. I did not want to take another medication. So I relented and agreed to begin short term disability leave.

In early October 2021, I completed pulmonary rehabilitation. I immediately began pulmonary maintenance to preserve the progress that I made in pulmonary rehabilitation. Although my pulmonary function has improved, sometimes I still have difficulty breathing. I continue to sleep for hours and spend most days in bed. I can only perform two or three tasks a day. If I push or overextend myself, I will spend several days in bed recovering. Large grocery stores, malls, and warehouses are often too much to navigate. To conserve my limited supply of energy I started using shortcuts like grocery delivery services.

Recently, I started neurological rehabilitation to address fatigue and brain fog. My brain works overtime to compensate for other bodily functions adversely affected by Long COVID. This causes extreme fatigue and brain fog. Brain fog in Long COVID patients is akin to a concussion or other traumatic brain injury. As part of my neurological rehabilitation, I was prescribed Amantadine, an older medication formulated to treat Parkinson’s disease. Amantadine has alleviated brain fog and by extension extreme fatigue in some Long COVID patients. Thus far, Amantadine has only marginally reduced my fatigue.

One year in, I am still on short-term disability leave. There are questions, such as those about my prognosis, that cannot be conclusively answered. For example, a number of Long COVID patients are unable to return to work. The jury is still out on whether I will be in that number. I do not know if I will fully recover from Long COVID or regain my pre-COVID health. So I work hard to mitigate the possible long term impact of Long COVID on my body. I always wear my mask, avoid large crowds or super spreader events, and stay inside as much as possible. I am fully vaccinated and have received a booster shot. I regularly go to pulmonary maintenance. I am a student of any serious medical condition or disease that I have. To that end, I joined the global Body Politic COVID-19 Slack Support Group. This support group birthed the Patient Led Research Collaborative, a group of Long COVID patients who are both intimately familiar with COVID19 and professionally research relevant subjects such as neuroscience, health activism, and human-centered design. The support group and collaborative were established to address the dearth of research on treating Long COVID. The COVID19 Support Group provides peer support, is a trove of information about Long COVID, and opportunities to listen to experts such as the NIH who share what they know about this condition.

After twelve months, three hundred sixty-five days, or five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of living with COVID19 and now Long COVID there are five things that I know for sure:

1. There have been 802,000 deaths and counting due to COVID19 in the United States.

2. Long COVID is not a respecter of persons. People can develop COVID19 and/or Long COVID regardless of race, sex, religious affiliation, socioeconomic status, geography, and even political party or philosophy.

3. Having COVID19 and Long COVID are hard and solitary experiences. Everyday I fight for my health and well-being.

4. As with other catastrophes that affect the entire or wide swaths of the United States, we must work together as a country to successfully navigate the COVID19 pandemic.

5. To date, there is no cure for COVID19 and Long COVID. The pandemic will continue to evolve and sprout variants until we develop the resolve to work together.

Lawyers with Depression Can Still Zealously Represent Clients While Embracing Their Humanity

Sat, 25 Nov 2023 04:39:55 GMT

Hello. My name is Stephanie. I am an attorney, writer, speaker, respectful disrupter and lifelong misfit living with depression

I remember it like it was yesterday. Late one summer afternoon many years ago, a strange heaviness settled upon me. At the time, I was home alone. Like a phantom thread, that heaviness pulled me upstairs to my bedroom. Once there, I locked the door, closed the curtains and laid on my bed. The semidarkness of my bedroom covered me like a blanket. It was oddly comforting. I cannot remember how long I laid on my bed.

When my family came home, I did not get up to greet them or respond when they called my name. Instead, I continued lying motionless on my bed. I did not move when I heard my father twisting the knob on my bedroom door. When my father finally unlocked and opened my bedroom door, I still did not get up or respond. He did not understand why I was lying on my bed in the dark. I did not know either. The year was 1978 and I was 15 years old. As a black teenager living in Cincinnati in the 1970s, I did not have the language to describe that strange heaviness. I certainly did not know that the heaviness was depression.

Sometimes my depression is coupled with a strong desire to end my life. During these major depressive episodes or crises, my mind is flooded with thoughts of suicide. Once my mind is saturated, suicide starts calling me. Initially, suicide’s voice is a faint whisper. The voice steadily escalates, growing louder and more aggressive. It shifts into overdrive and tries to grind me into submission. My mind does not wrestle with suicidal ideation because it is defective or weak. For me suicide is not about wanting to die. Suicide casts itself as a quick and painless antidote to a pernicious depression. I know that suicide is anything but a viable solution. I understand that my completed suicide would reverberate throughout my family for generations.

To overcome my suicidal ideation, I had to become a student of my mental illness. I learned what would trigger a depressive episode and how to quickly shut it down. This approach proved very effective until February 2006.

In February 2006, I started over with two children, two months of outstanding mortgage payments, an empty refrigerator and $120. My marriage ended, and I started down the long, cracked path toward divorce. This seismic life shift caused me to regurgitate the pain, darkness, poor self-esteem, betrayal and worthlessness that I repeatedly swallowed throughout my 14-year marriage all over the ground. All that remained was a firmly entrenched depression that I had unwittingly lived with for nearly my entire marriage. The approach that proved so effective in my 20s was no match for this firmly entrenched depression. For the first time, I needed antidepressants to manage my mental illness.

I must admit that I hate taking any type of medication. Prescribing antidepressants is not a straightforward process. It takes time. In my case, finding the most effective antidepressant was made more complicated because I was uninsured. My internist at the time started me on 10 mg of Lexapro, a dosage that gave me about seven good days a month. After about three months, my doctor increased my dosage of Lexapro to 20 mg daily.

While helpful, it became apparent that Lexapro alone was not enough. It took several months to find a combination of medications that worked. When I felt better, my ego took over. I began what became a destructive cycle of taking antidepressants as prescribed for four or five months and then stopping because I felt better. This practice proved disastrous. Abruptly stopping antidepressants can trigger seizures and other serious conditions. Once the medications were out of my system I would mentally unravel and break down. Trust me, mentally unraveling is scary. I cry and completely fall apart. I become overwhelmed and can’t think straight. On a few occasions, I have even been suicidal.

Eventually, I hit a wall and stop functioning in any meaningful way. As a single parent raising children entirely on my own, I did not have the luxury of falling apart. It took months of repeating this cycle over and over before I finally got tired of unraveling and all of the drama that comes with it. My depression is no different than any other medical condition that requires treatment. Today I still hate taking medication. But I have lived the ugly of what happens when I stop. I simply refuse to go out like that.

Some of you may find my candor risky. Others may believe that my vulnerability will torpedo my legal career. However, after more than 40 years of living with depression, there are a few things that I know for sure. One, my silence will not help anyone. Two, I do not learn the lesson or do the soul work for my personal benefit. I have a responsibility to tell my story so that others on the same path know that they are not alone. Three, I will not heal what I refuse to acknowledge.

The legal profession must stop pretending that the proverbial emperor is wearing clothes. Contrary to popular belief, we are merely human. We can zealously represent clients while embracing our humanity and vulnerability. As a community we can create emotionally safe spaces to discuss and seek treatment for a mental illness without being stigmatized.

I am here to respectfully disrupt the stigma and shame associated with mental illness within the legal profession. My motto for living with depression is: #noapology #noretreat #noshame #nosurrender.

Originally published in the American Bar Association Online Journal

My #OptionB Story of Resilience

Wed, 22 Nov 2023 05:45:27 GMT

“My son could have been in a gang, my daughter could have been pregnant. We defied all statistics.”

My husband left in 2006. We’d been married thirteen years. He moved to another state and started a new family. I had $120, two kids, two months of outstanding mortgage payments, and an empty refrigerator. Back then I didn’t have family or friends nearby.

My doctor said, “You’re beyond clinical depression.” I was tormented with the idea of suicide. I thought, “My children would be so much better off if I wasn’t here, because how can I be a good parent?”

But actually, my children helped me the most.

I wanted to stay in bed and hide. Because of my kids, I couldn’t do that. I’m a lawyer by profession, and I had to find a job with consistent benefits.

My good friend helped me. Her husband had died very suddenly a few years before. She said, “There were days that I just did not want to get up. But I had to. No matter how hard it is, you’ve got to get up and just keep going, baby.”

I had to let people know that I needed help. I had a hard time accepting that. One day my friend called and said, “I’ve got four hundred dollars for you to buy school clothing for your children.” I had to humble myself. If I didn’t humble myself and go to a food pantry or allow people to give me money, then we just simply weren’t going to make it.

Every time I would hit a low point, I’d think, “There should be a manual that tells you how to deal with this.” That’s why in 2013 I decided to start telling my story to encourage other people. I’ve written about it in The Huffington Post, I’ve given a Tedx talk. That was a watershed year for me.

Writing about my story is the work that gives me the most fulfillment.

As a lawyer, I’ve seen real differences in how African American children are treated versus white children. I’ve seen inequality lead kids to join gangs, get pregnant at a young age. That could have happened to my children. But we defied all statistics. My son won a full college scholarship. He’s about to graduate, and he already has a job in Atlanta. My daughter is a high school senior. We hope she’ll get a scholarship too.

When my husband left, my world had become incredibly narrow and small. Him leaving saved me. At the beginning I didn’t see it this way, but it freed me. Because of my journey over the last ten years, my world has become so big.

---

Stephanie Mitchell Hughes is an attorney, writer, speaker, and respectful disrupter. She is a regular contributor to The Huffington Post, The Good Men Project, Thrive on Medium, and mariashriver.com. Watch Stephanie’s Tedx talk and follow her on Twitter and Facebook.

Image Credit: Jeff Swensen/The Verbatim Agency for OptionB.Org

Dear Charlamagne Tha God: I Am a Fat Chick. I Am Not Obsessed With Food.

Wed, 22 Nov 2023 05:11:49 GMT

During the Valentine’s Day episode, you said that you wanted to “salute all the fat chicks out there celebrating their true love today which is food. You may be single now but you’ll catch mad discounts on chocolate tomorrow.”

Charlamagne, I do not believe that you intended to insult more endowed women by calling us “fat chicks.” That said, you do not seem to appreciate the gravity of your remarks. You are also blithely unaware of the fact that for this “fat chick” and those like me your comments have consequences that extend beyond an episode of The Breakfast Club. Loving good food that sustains and nourishes the body is not wrong. Challenges arise when anyone consumes excessive amounts of any food be they overweight, skinny, or otherwise.

I am a disordered eater who uses food and excess weight as a protective hedge against further trauma. I believe, quite wrongly, that my excess weight allows me to hide in plain sight. There are many so called “fat chicks” who use food and weight for the same reason. In some instances this behavior runs deep enough to constitute a serious and sometimes life threatening eating disorder.

Breaking the pattern of my disordered eating has been a process that requires me to completely dig up and remove all traces of the lies that I accepted about myself. The lie that I am just an ugly girl unworthy of any expression of loving kindness. The lie that my physical body is merely an object to be abused instead of a sacred vessel deserving of protection. These lies have haunted me for as long as I can remember. I have repeatedly cast these lies off only for a triggering event to bring them roaring back.

Charlamagne, as an radio personality and provocateur you know that words are powerful. I am certain that you do not want to say anything that only serves to trigger disordered behaviors or reinforce negative stereotypes about so called “fat chicks.” Going forward I challenge you to be provocative and mindful about what you say.

As for me, I am on an exciting journey of discovery and healing where my weight loss is the byproduct of hard work. So, Charlamagne Tha God I am not a fat chick searching for mad discounts on chocolate. I am a woman working to live my best life.

For more information about women and food I suggest the following all by Geneen Roth:

Women Food and God

Feeding the Hungry Heart

When Food Is Love

Breaking Free From Emotional Eating

For help with an eating disorder contact the National Eating Disorders Association Helpline at: 1 (800) 931–2237

Another Depression Crisis Revisited

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 23:13:29 GMT

“Hello darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk to you again. . .”

The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel

On August 20, 2016, I posted the following comment on Facebook:

“I need to confess a recurring thought that has troubled me all day and into the night. It is stopping me from sleeping. Confession holds me accountable for taking care of myself. My confession will terrify and worry several of you. But I need you to trust me enough not to freak out. Please don’t tell me that my life is worth everything. I know that. Don’t call the police, or my parents, or the Netcare Access Van. Please don’t show up on my doorstep. I just need to confess because stuffing my secret thoughts deep inside only feeds the insanity of wanting to harm myself. So here it goes. I am overwhelmed with depression. Though it does not happen everyday anymore right now I just want to lay down and die.”

In 2013, when I finally emerged from a seven year slog out of my last depression pit, I vowed to never allow dark thoughts of suicide to hold my mind hostage again. So, last August while immersed in a full-blown depression crisis I decided to write my suicidal thoughts out loud on Facebook. I did not want these thoughts to become imbedded in my mind. I do not want death to begin stalking me daily as she did for many, many years. Writing my depression out loud holds me accountable for zealously guarding my mental health. It also freed up the space I needed to identify the source of my seemingly sudden depression crisis.

My depression crisis was a red flag signaling that I was out of balance. The question was how and where? Was I overly tired or more stressed than usual? Had I overindulged in too many sweets or processed foods? Did I need a respite from the nonstop merry-go-round that is my life as a solo mom? Had my biochemistry changed making my current antidepressant regimen ineffective? My antidepressant medications had not been evaluated since my now former psychiatrist retired four years ago. Four years is an eternity in the world of antidepressants. Eventually, I identified my antidepressant regimen as the probable source of my crisis.

Over the last four years, I have searched in vain for another psychiatrist or advanced nurse practitioner to manage and evaluate my medications. Every clinic and practice that I called told me that they were not accepting new patients. Why? Because there is a chronic shortage of psychiatrists across the United States that continues to worsen as the need for mental health services increases.

The United States Department of Health and Human Services, Health Resources and Services Administration has identified 4,000 communities across the country with a ratio of one psychiatrist for every 30,000 people. These 4,000 communities need roughly 2,800 psychiatrists to eliminate the shortage of mental health professionals. The factors contributing to this shortage include an aging profession where 59% of psychiatrists are 55 or older. Statistics also reveal that between 1995 and 2013 the number of psychiatrists only rose 12 percent while the U.S. population increased by 37 percent. Additionally, because of the Affordable Care Act, commonly known as Obamacare, more Americans are now eligible for mental health coverage. Inadequate pay, cumbersome insurance plans, and psychiatrists who only accept cash are all contributing factors. Finally, the fear, stigma and shame surrounding mental illness causes some medical students to view the field of psychiatry unfavorably.

In my own case, the sudden onset of my depression crisis shook me to the core. I could no longer allow the dearth of mental health professionals to impede my search for a new psychiatrist. So once again I returned to and started working through my list of clinics and mental health practices only to be turned away because there was still no room at the proverbial inn. One clinic reported receiving between 35 and 45 calls daily from those seeking medication management. The intake professional at that clinic was horrified when I told her that my antidepressants had not been evaluated for four years. I then called two psychiatrists one of whom is a childhood friend for recommendations. She told me about one psychiatry practice with a waiting list of 600 people. A waiting list of 600 people is not a waiting list.

I knew that a psychiatrist would evaluate me if I went to the emergency room. However, the question was at what cost. The price of seeing a psychiatrist in an emergency room raises the specter of a 72 hour hold. In short, I could be placed on an emergency 72 hour hold, meaning involuntarily committed to a psychiatric facility, if hospital officials determine that I am a danger to myself or others. For a solo mom parenting alone with no one to care for my children, an involuntary 72 hour hold is simply not a viable option. Most importantly, an involuntary commitment of any length is overkill for someone in need of medication management. Though not the focus of this post, suggestions for resolving the nationwide shortage of psychiatrists include intensive outpatient treatment, tele-psychiatry to evaluate patients via video across wider regions of the country and allowing mental health practitioners to work collaboratively with traditional healthcare providers.

After two weeks spent culling through the list of mental health providers, I was able to schedule an appointment with an advanced nurse practitioner in a practice located two hours south of where I live. Seeing her would involve driving two hours each way after a full day of work. Such an arrangement is just not sustainable. Eventually, my insurer found a psychiatrist in my community who is accepting new patients. That said finding a new psychiatrist is only the beginning. Now my new psychiatrist and I must find a medication regimen that effectively treats my depression.

Finding a psychiatrist in the midst of my depression crisis has been extremely overwhelming. But, protecting my mental health requires that I soldier on. Living in the darkness and silence that is the hallmark of my depression is no longer an option.

My mantra for living with depression is #noapology #noretreat #nosurrender

My Open Letter to the African American Church About Depression

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 06:54:06 GMT

You have been the hedge of protection around the African American community from slavery through the present day. However, I must respectfully call you out for avoiding the candid conversation about depression; that large pink and purple elephant that has roamed around many of your sanctuaries for years.

I appreciate your reluctance to openly discuss and embrace depression. I have suffered crippling episodes of depression for at least 39 of my 53 years of living. During many of these bouts, death stalked and taunted me to end my life. God protected me through each bout and blocked me from ending my life. Living with depression can be simultaneously chaotic, messy, scary, painful, and hard. But my experience has taught me that the hard associated with my depression does not diminish the power and authenticity of my testimony. In fact it is the hard, painful, and messy part of my mental illness that prompted me to begin sharing my testimony about living with depression. I want those living with depression to know that they do not walk alone.

Data collected by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Office of Minority Health reveals that African Americans are 20% more likely to experience serious mental health challenges than the general population. A significant portion of this same 20% can be found throughout every African American church from the pulpit to the very last pew. Sadly, misconceptions about depression within some African American churches has severely undermined their members’ recovery. These same misconceptions have caused some living with depression to question whether they actually have faith in God and reinforces shame and stigma.

When faced with shame, stigma, and possible rejection by their beloved church, African American members, preachers, and teachers become expert at using everything except the appropriate treatment to hide their depression. They continue preaching, teaching, and serving despite the crushing weight of despair associated with untreated depression all while silently praying for a fresh anointing. The African American church must be that same hedge of protection around those living with depression and other mental illnesses. As an institution, the church cannot effectively speak life, healing, or peace to anyone unless it’s preachers, teachers, and members are mentally and spiritually healthy.

Fulfilling your role as the hedge of protection around African Americans requires you to support those within your community who live with a mental illness. You have taught us that we overcome through the power of our testimony. However, that testimony will ring hollow if your members, teachers, and preachers continue to wear the visible chains of untreated depression while carrying the baggage that accompanies it. So dear African American church I am calling you out. Lives are at stake. “The Potter wants to put you back together again.” Jeremiah 18:3–4. It is time to convene a candid and crucial conversation about depression.

My mantra for living with depression is #noapology #nocondemnation #noretreat #nosurrender.

Resources

https://www.nami.org/About-NAMI/NAMI-News/Why-Should-African-American-Churches-Care-about-Me

https://www.nami.org/Blogs/NAMI-Blog/February-2016/Why-Faith-Is-Important-to-African-American-Mental

https://www.nami.org/NAMIFaithnet

https://www.nami.org/Get-Involved/NAMI-FaithNet/Tips-For-How-to-Help-a-Person-with-Mental-Illness

http://www.mentalhealth.gov/talk/faith-community-leaders/index.html

http://www.samhsa.gov/faith-based-initiatives

My Suicide Voice Disappeared…..

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 06:21:23 GMT

Write this. Write what you see. Write it out in big block letters so that it can be read on the run. This vision-message is a witness pointing to what’s coming. Habakkuk 2:2 The Message

I have lived with depression for more than forty-one years. Over the last four decades my depression slowly evolved from situational to chronic. However, whether situational or chronic, my depression is linked by one common denominator: an insidious suicidal ideation that I call The Voice. It stalked me daily for many years and demanded that I end my life. Some history about my depression is essential to understanding The Voice’s power.

I experienced my first depressive episode when I was 15 years old. Between 15 and 30 years old my depressive episodes were situational and short-lived. During this fifteen year period, I transitioned from high school to college, law school, and then professional working woman. When I was 25 years old, I started practicing law. At 30 years old I got married and soon had my first child. By my mid-thirties I was a professional working woman, wife, and mother of two young children. My life was a whirlwind of diapers, daycare, and depositions. I was left to manage these demanding roles largely on my own. Because of this, I did not know that I was lonely and increasingly isolated. In the midst of the whirlwind, loneliness, and isolation, my depression began evolving from situational to chronic.

As the years slipped away, my depression formed a chrysalis that clung to my skin and encased me from head to toe. I was emotionally detached and did not feel the deep depression sinking into the marrow of my bones. At this point I had lived steeped in that same deep depression for more than a decade without knowing it. Then in February 2006, the major life shift that is divorce jolted me out of my stupor. I have spent the last thirteen years wrestling with my insidious chronic depression, a different treatment regimen, and The Voice.

The Voice is embedded in the DNA of my depression. It is equal parts manipulation, seduction, shame, and power. Like a roaring lion, The Voice roams back and forth waiting to devour me in one bite. Talking about The Voice frightens my friends and family. To protect them I seldom disclose when I am suicidal. To survive I learned to take The Voice captive and reduced it to a low buzz. Over time that low buzz became white noise that I pushed to the back of my mind.

A few months ago, I noticed that the white noise and low buzz had disappeared. I scoured my mind but could not find or hear it. Initially, The Voice’s abrupt departure and the eerie silence that remained was unnerving. I panicked as questions flooded my mind. Why did The Voice leave? Where did it go? Will The Voice comeback? After several anxiety filled weeks, I stopped searching. It finally occurred to me that I was searching for something that has stalked me daily for years and relentlessly pushed me to end my life. I have lived with depression and The Voice for so many years that I assumed that both would always be with me. Now it seems that I have turned the page to a new chapter. I cannot predict how the new chapter will evolve or end. However, I can prepare an action plan to thwart attacks against my mental health and well-being including those hurled by The Voice. Writing my action plan out loud reinforces its seriousness and holds me accountable.

My Action Plan is built upon:

1. Faith, prayer, and worship.

2. The Voice of Truth. The Voice of Truth is my encourager, protector, healer, comforter, peace, guide, and strength. It breathes life into my spirit and soul.

3. Bikram Yoga. Bikram Yoga is a ninety minute silent moving meditation through twenty-six poses led by a certified yoga instructor in 105 degrees and forty percent humidity. This demanding practice fully engages both my body and mind. Bikram Yoga helps me breathe deeply, quiets my mind, and teaches me to stand in stillness regardless of the circumstances. It strengthens my core, increases flexibility, and builds stamina. In short, Bikram Yoga is a beast. Only a beast can defeat another beast including one called depression.

4. Establish firm boundaries to protect my mental and physical health. I simply do not have the capacity to absorb someone else’s dysfunction plus manage my own.

5. Grace and mercy. Throughout my life, I have experienced an outpouring of grace and mercy.That grace and mercy continues to follow me. Because of this, I must generously extend the same to family, friends, and strangers alike.

6. Gratitude. My life has not been one mountaintop experience after another. The valleys and hard spaces have taught me to be grateful even in the seemingly small things.

7. Being mindfully present in my body and mind.

8. Resilience and perseverance.

9. Laughter and fun.

10. Telling my story.

As with anything that I write take what you need and leave the rest.

I seek to respectfully disrupt the stigma and shame associated with mental illness within the black, faith, and legal/corporate communities.

My motto for living with depression is: #noapology #noretreat #noshame #nosurrender.

Stephanie Mitchell Hughes

Mental Health Resources

If you are suicidal or in crisis:

Call 911 or go to your nearest emergency room.

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1–800–273-TALK (8255) to reach the 24-hour crisis center

Connect to Lifeline Crisis Chat at crisischat.org.

American Society for Suicide Prevention https://www.afsp.org

National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)

https://www.nami.org

Text NAMI to 741741.

Call the NAMI Helpline at

(800) 950–6264 Monday through Friday 10 am to 6 pm EST

Books

Bipolar Faith: A Black Woman’s Journey through Depression and Faith by Dr. Monica Coleman

The Beast: A Journey Through Depression by Tracy Thompson

Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness by William Styron

Boundaries by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend

The Body Keeps the Score by Dr. Bessel Van Der Kolk

An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Johnson

Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown

Safe People by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend

The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Darkness by Elyn Saks

Welcome to My Breakdown: A Memoir by Benilde Little

Can I Get a Witness? by Dr. Julia Boyd.Voices of Hope for Mental Illness by Jackie Goldstein

I Am Kate Spade

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 04:35:01 GMT

“When the angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, the Lord is with you mighty warrior.” Judges 6:12 NIV

Kate Spade’s suicide struck me at my core. I have always appreciated Ms. Spade because we are the same age and her classic fashion sense as reflected in her jewelry, purses, and shoes mirrors my own. Little did I know that we share something far more serious and profound. I have lived with an insidious depression since I was at least 15 years old. This year I will be 56. My own depression is stealth and can seep through the smallest crack. During major depressive episodes, my mind is flooded with thoughts of suicide. Once these thoughts become embedded in my psyche suicide beckons, stalks, and haunts me hoping that eventually I will acquiesce. I do not contemplate suicide because I am weak, selfish, or lack faith. For me suicide is about shutting off the intense pain that accompanies my major depression. Kate Spade’s suicide triggered memories of my own suicidal ideation. Does this mean that I am a danger to myself? No. I realize that my revelation will terrify my family and friends. For that I apologize. Right now I cannot shelter you from what I am really thinking. In this moment I must protect my mental health. Writing my suicidal thoughts out loud disarms and obliterates them. I tell my story so that those contemplating suicide know that they are not alone.

Those of you who do not live with or are not affected by mental illness may ask why Ms. Spade, a powerful woman of means and access, would commit suicide. After all, Kate Spade was a well respected fashion icon living in New York City. She was not poor or living paycheck to paycheck. Ms. Spade could give her daughter the advantages that come with privilege. Because Ms. Spade was privileged, some may believe that she did not have a legitimate reason to be depressed or end her life. Ms. Spade’s death has reminded me to extend grace rather than judgment. Friends and strangers alike are fighting battles that I know nothing about. Living with depression is an intensely personal, solitary, and frequently painful experience. Depression is not a respecter of persons. Wealth, race, celebrity, power, and dare I say it religious beliefs will not automatically protect anyone from the scourge of depression or the tragedy that is suicide.

Over the last several days I have struggled to parse my history of suicidal ideation with Kate Spade’s suicide. In my case, parsing my suicidal thoughts is akin to poking a sleeping giant. I believe that Ms. Spade’s suicide is a clarion call to begin crucial conversations about mental illness and suicide. The statistics are sobering. According to the CDC between 1999 and 2016 death by suicide increased in all fifty states. In more than half of the fifty states suicide increased by at least 30% during the same period. The most dramatic rise in the number of deaths by suicide, 54%, is amongst those with no diagnosable mental illness. As the number of attempted and completed suicides continues to escalate we can no longer pretend that the proverbial emperor is wearing clothes. The inability to have these crucial conversations reinforces stigma and discourages those living with a mental illness from seeking appropriate medical treatment.

I am a warrior who returns to the battlefield daily prepared to fight for my mental health. In the morning when I rise, I put on my whole armor complete with sword, helmet, belt, breastplate, shield, and shoes. I pray fervently for the daily renewing of my mind. Medication, counseling, scriptures, and prayer are the weapons of my warfare. As I walk onto the battlefield, a still small voice tells me that my story is not finished.

I am Kate Spade.

My mantra for living with depression and suicidal thoughts is #noapology #noretreat #noshame #nosurrender

What Is Good About Living With Depression

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 04:23:32 GMT

Several years ago someone asked me if there was anything good about living with depression. Initially, I was stumped. Mentally I scoured my mind for an answer. What could possibly be good about living with depression or any other mental illness? I have lived with depression for at least 45 years with generous episodes of suicidal ideation sprinkled throughout. I know from first hand experience that mental illness is messy and disruptive. Because of stigma and shame, depression is still the word that cannot be named. Sometimes having a mental illness exacts a toll that is too high to pay. When viewed through this lens, it is reasonable to conclude that there is nothing good about having a mental illness. However, living with depression has taught me to look beyond what seems reasonable or logical inside my unquiet mind.

I am a person of faith. Because of this, I view my mental illness through this lens. Now I may have lost some of you when I mentioned my faith. Before you stop reading, I ask you to consider the entirety of my article. As with anything else that I write or say, take what you need and leave the rest.

During depressive episodes, I sometimes think about the Apostle Paul. You may not know that Paul was originally Saul of Tarsus a Pharisee and zealous enemy of Christianity. Saul of Tarsus became Paul after a Damascus Road conversion experience. Then Jesus selected Paul to be a member of his crew meaning one of the twelve disciples. During his travels preaching the Gospel, Paul endured beatings, imprisonment, starvation, rejection, and poverty. Despite his suffering, Paul accomplished great things for the cause of Christ and played a crucial role in establishing the Christian church. Paul wrote at least seven Epistles, meaning letters, in the New Testament including 2 Corinthians. When we meet Paul in 2 Corinthians Chapter 12, he is talking about the “thorn in his flesh.” Paul does not explain what the thorn is. However, it is clear that the thorn is quite painful and on three occasions Paul begs God to remove it. Each time God refuses to remove the thorn and ultimately tells Paul “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Paul finally accepts the reality that the thorn piercing his flesh serves as a constant reminder that God’s grace is sufficient, strong enough, to help him endure any pain that weakens him. The thorn also stops Paul from becoming conceited about all that he accomplished for the modern church.

So you may wonder how the thorn in Paul’s flesh explains what is good about living with a mental illness. I am NOT comparing myself or circumstances to the Apostle Paul. In fact, I don’t think that I could endure all that Paul suffered. I am focused on the thorn. Over the last 45 years, I have asked to be relieved of depressive episodes and suffocating thoughts of suicide. But, the thorn has never been removed. Instead the thorn has given me a heart full of grace to extend to others. It reminds me that this same grace is sufficient to stand firm in the midst of my most pernicious depressive episodes. That grace is what is good about living with depression. It has the power to sustain us. We must tap into it.

Originally published in #TheGoodMenProject

What Did Not Kill Me…

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 03:44:15 GMT

I am a survivor. Being a survivor means that I have released what nearly destroyed me and awakened to hear my calling. February 2006 marked the beginning of my awakening to the life that I have been called to lead. During that month, I started over with two children, two months of outstanding mortgage payments, an empty refrigerator, and $120.00. My marriage was over and I was on the road to divorce. In that moment the pain, loneliness, anger, unforgiveness, and bitterness that I had carefully repressed over the previous fourteen years burst forth. I thought that I was no longer holding these heavy emotions inside and felt free to begin what I believed would be a short journey towards rebuilding a new life for my children and me. However, it quickly became apparent that my journey towards that new life would be anything but short or easy. I realized that I had repressed such negativity for so long that pain, loneliness, anger, unforgiveness, and bitterness had actually formed chains around my heart. Undeterred by my seemingly impenetrable chains, I tried to move forward in the direction that I thought I should go. It took nearly seven years of boomeranging around the wilderness before I understood three things. First, I had to stop trying to move forward and do the hard inner work where I was. Second, I could not carry my closed heart chained by pain, loneliness, anger, unforgiveness, and bitterness into the life that I had been called to lead. Third, I must tell my story so that others will know that they are not on the journey alone.

At the beginning of each year after February 2006, I expected my life to take off. I thought that starting over would be easy because I possessed the requisite educational and professional credentials to command the job and salary that I deserved. But, my life did not take off or magically fall into place. Instead, I continued limping along. Eventually, I stopped expecting my circumstances to improve. It took me until the beginning of 2013 to understand that my life did not “take off” because I had not stopped to do the hard inner work critical to breaking the chains that bound my heart. Essentially, I had to learn the lesson and do the inner work from where I was and not where I thought I should be. I realized that I do not get a free pass on doing the work or learning the lesson. If I insisted upon trudging forward without doing the necessary work, I would only continue boomeranging around the wilderness. I knew that I did not want to remain there.

Second, I could not carry my closed heart, wrapped in the chains of pain, loneliness, anger, unforgiveness, and bitterness into the life that I have been called to lead. These chains had to be irrevocably broken. Breaking my chains required me to submit to being shaken and pressed like a ripe olive during harvest until the roots of my pain, loneliness, anger, unforgiveness, and bitterness were completely removed. Only then did my heart open. With an open heart I was free to extend and receive love, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, grace, and patience.

Finally, I did not learn the lesson or do the hard inner work for my personal benefit. I did the hard work and learned the lesson to remind others that they do not walk alone. I have a responsibility to tell others about the outpouring of grace, meaning unmerited favor, that I experienced during my darkest moments. Indeed, that same unmerited favor continues to sustain and push me forward. Hopefully, my story will encourage others to break the chains that bind them so that their hearts will open to love, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, grace, and patience. Today, I am still on the journey breaking other chains that bind by embracing the hard, doing the inner work, telling my story and making the shift from surviving to thriving.

Dementia Took My Grandma & Aunt’s Memories, But I Am Determined to Face Aging With Openness

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 03:38:13 GMT

Growing up I spent every Christmas visiting my grandparents. When I was about fifteen years old, my Great Aunt Della came to my grandparents’ house several times during our Christmas visit. While there, Aunt Della sat in the back room adjacent to the kitchen and yelled my grandmother’s name over and over. Whenever Aunt Della called her, my grandmother, Grandma Rose, would scurry from the kitchen only to discover that she could not remember what she needed. As a fifteen year old, I thought that Aunt Della was an odd ball. I later learned that Aunt Della was not an odd ball; she suffered from dementia. At the time, I did not fully understand dementia and how destructive it could be.

My Grandma Rose was short, feisty, smart and one of the most resourceful women that I have been privileged to know. She walked everywhere into her early eighties and was in excellent physical condition. I only wish that the same could be said for my grandmother’s cognitive abilities. As dementia’s vice grip tightened, my grandmother became increasingly combative. Sometimes Grandma Rose did not remember my name or that I was her granddaughter.

Instead of mourning the only grandmother that I have ever known, I chose to enjoy just being with her whether she was combative, silent or sang the same song over and over again. While dementia may have ravaged my grandmother’s mind, it never touched her spirit. Even on the darkest days, I could still feel my grandmother’s feistiness radiating just beneath the surface. I took that feistiness as a sign that Grandma Rose was not going to allow dementia to prevent her from finishing her life race strong.

My own mother is nearly the same age that Grandma Rose was when she began showing signs of dementia. It will be difficult if dementia takes control of my mother’s mind and body. I wonder how I will muster the fortitude to be strong for my mother when she is the person who has always told me how to be strong and supported me through every difficulty I have faced in my life. But, if I must mourn the mother I have always known, I hope to be strong enough to readily and fully embrace who she becomes. Just as with Grandma Rose, I know that dementia will not prevent me from feeling my mother’s spirit.

Having or loving someone with dementia can be overwhelming, scary and exasperating all at the same time. I must admit my own apprehension about the possible loss of cognitive function, freedom, privacy and dignity that comes with dementia. But, if I remain open to the experience, dementia will expand my capacity for empathy, resilience, courage and humility. I do not know if I will suffer from dementia or some other cognitively debilitating condition. However, as time passes I find myself using more of what I learned from Aunt Della, Grandma Rose and my mother.

To honor these women who have poured so much of themselves into me, I choose to live with grace, be a light-bearer of hope, keep overcoming adversity and speak truth to power. Regardless of what comes, I intend to draw upon all that they poured into me to finish my own life race strong

The Gift of Grace

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 03:21:53 GMT

“My grace is enough to cover and sustain you…” 2 Corinthians 12:9 The Voice

In May 2023, my friend Terri transitioned after beating back ovarian cancer for seven years. Terri and I met sixteen years ago in a divorce recovery class. At the time we were both in the early stage of the divorce process. We also had two little girls the same age. They also became fast friends. Terri was a faithful, resourceful, kind, and gentle soul who always saw the best in people and circumstances. She was slow to anger, quick to forgive, and graciously extended grace-meaning unmerited favor-to others. Because of Terri, my children and I received an outpouring of grace that still informs how I serve and respond to others. It remains one of my most profound life experiences.

Shortly after finalizing my divorce I put the only home that my children had ever known on the market. The house sold very quickly leaving me only a few days to find a suitable home for us. I decided to rent an apartment until I could regain my financial footing. Unfortunately, the apartment community that I found was anything but suitable. It was a nightmarish version of Animal House and totally inappropriate for families especially those with precocious eight year old little girls. By the end of the following school year, I knew that we had to move.

I used all of my limited resources to secure our new home and had no money left to pay movers. Without missing a beat Terri called an associate minister at her church. She asked him if he knew anyone who could help me move. Fortunately, a group of college-age young people from across the country were scheduled to complete a missions project at the church on the same weekend that I was scheduled to move. The associate minister arranged for young men from the group to spend two hours on Saturday morning moving all of our belongings. I was shocked. I was not a member of Terri’s church. In fact, I had never even visited and knew nothing about the missions group. Why would strangers help me with anything, especially the dreaded task of moving? I was very skeptical. Terri, on the other hand, confidently reassured me that the group would show up.

As promised early Saturday morning a Penske truck pulled up to the back of my apartment unit accompanied by approximately 25 young men. After brief introductions, the young men started moving stuff out of the apartment and onto the truck. They then drove the truck to our new home and unloaded it. Before leaving, the young men thanked me and my children for allowing them to serve us. Then they prayed blessings over us and our new home.

Life is hard and often unforgiving. Grace helps us navigate life’s hard places. It is the hand that helps us up when we fall. At the time, I was struggling financially and overcome with a firmly entrenched depression. I had fallen. Terri and the missions group helped me rise.

The entire experience left me wondering what would happen if we generously extended grace to each other. Would joy displace anger and hate yield to love? Could giving or benevolence supplant greed? Perhaps violence would be replaced by peace, patience, and even agape love.

In the years since then, Terri continued to shower me with grace, forgiveness, and prayer. I know that I am not alone. Over the last seven years, Terri’s gratitude and faith never faltered even in her darkest moments with ovarian cancer. Thank you Terri for giving me the gift of grace. Rest in power.

Down My Depression Rabbit Hole

Tue, 21 Nov 2023 02:26:48 GMT

I have suffered debilitating bouts of depression since I was at least 15 years old. This year I will turn 54. During these bouts I would tumble down a rabbit hole. Sometimes the rabbit hole felt safe and secure. On other occasions no matter how far down I burrowed the rabbit hole felt anything but safe. In those instances, depression would twist my mind into a chokehold. It would then plead, push, and dare me to end my life. Fortunately, these debilitating bouts never lasted long enough to completely bury me in the rabbit hole. As a result, for many years I was able to climb out of the rabbit hole without the aid of medication or any other support that is until February 2006.

In February 2006, my marriage was over and I found myself walking a long, cracked path towards divorce. This major life shift caused me to regurgitate the pain, poor self-esteem, betrayal, and worthlessness that I held inside for fourteen years all over the cracked path that I had to walk. In that moment, I also realized that I had been deeply depressed for nearly my entire marriage without knowing it. In short, I had spent almost fourteen years in a rabbit hole and did not know how I got there.

Looking back, I can pinpoint the day that I tumbled back down the rabbit hole. At the time, I had only one child who was only 18 months old. The rabbit hole was dark with smooth muddy walls and floors. Instead of climbing out within a few weeks I burrowed further and further down in search of a space that felt safe. Intellectually, I knew that the safety I craved could not actually be found in the rabbit hole. However, once I found that safe space, I snuggled inside its warmth. So, I had another child. I bought furniture, redecorated, added rooms for my children, and brought them to live in the rabbit hole with me. The rabbit hole became my fortress against the pain and loneliness I felt from years of having my love repeatedly misused, balled up, and thrown back in my face. Inside my fortress no one could get close enough to harm me again. With each passing year, the rabbit hole became my new normal and gave me permission to remain stuck.

As time passed, it became increasingly apparent that depression’s vice grip on my mind was so strong that, for the first time, I needed medication to treat it. Accepting my need for medication to treat my depression has not been easy. In my case, finding the right medication regime was a process made all the more complicated because I was uninsured. After finding the right combination of medications, I started what became a highly destructive cycle of taking depression medication as prescribed and then stopping abruptly because I felt “better.” This practice proved disastrous. Repeating this cycle caused me to return to the rabbit hole again and again.

The last ten years have been a long and arduous climb out of my rabbit hole called depression. Sometimes I still tumble back in and do not want to leave the safety, albeit false, of the fortress I built. The difference is I know when I have fallen back down and immediately get the help needed to climb back out. Today I am a work in progress. I don’t want to keep returning to a place that holds so much of my brokenness and desperately want to stop engaging in behavior that only feeds my depression. Instead I do the following:

Take my medication as prescribed and participate in treatment.
Practice regular self-care without apology.
Resist the urge to numb my feelings with excess food and weight.
Fill my mind with beauty instead of the ugliness associated with my mental illness.
Meditate on that which is authentic, compelling, and gracious.
Remain mindfully present in my recovery and treatment.
Set firm boundaries with unsafe people and situations.
Refuse to return to who and what broke me.
Remind myself that I am not a victim because I live with depression. I am more than a conqueror. I am an overcomer.
I tell my story.

My mantra #noapology #nosurrender #noretreat.

The Transforming Power of Grace

Mon, 20 Nov 2023 07:16:37 GMT

Life is tough and can be unforgiving. Grace sustains us on our journey through the inevitable hard places and difficult seasons. Indeed, grace is more than mercy. Grace strengthens and emboldens us. It softens a hard heart. Grace gives us what I call "bounce back."

Lately, I have been wondering what would happen if we regularly extended grace-meaning unmerited favor -- to each other regardless of whether it is deserved or has been earned. Over the last eight years my children and I have walked through some very tough times. But, whether it was a casserole left on the back porch, gasoline for our car, money for back to school clothing or an extension to pay a bill, friends and strangers alike have freely extended grace to us again and again. One experience that my children and I had early on our journey is indicative of the outpouring of grace that we have received, and I want to share it with you.

In May 2007, I sold the only home that my children had ever known as part of my divorce. The house sold very quickly leaving me only a few days to find a suitable new home for my children and I. Unfortunately, the only housing that I could find turned out to be anything but suitable. In fact, the apartment community is akin to Animal House and totally inappropriate for families with children. By the end of the following school year, I felt that I had no other choice but to move. I used all of my limited resources to secure our new residence and had no money left to pay movers. A friend, also a single mother, asked an associate minister at her church if he knew anyone who could assist me with moving. It just so happened that a missions group composed of college-age young people from all over the United States was coming to work at her church the same weekend that I was scheduled to move. The associate minister arranged for the young men from the group to spend two hours on Saturday morning moving all of our belongings to our new home. I was shocked because I had never even visited her church and knew nothing about the missions group. I did not understand why a group of people who I did not know would assist me with anything especially moving. In fact, during the week preceding the move I asked my friend repeatedly if she was certain that the missions group was actually coming to help.

As promised on Saturday morning at 9:00 a.m. a Penske truck pulled up to the back of my apartment unit accompanied by approximately 25 young men. After brief introductions, the young men started moving stuff out of the apartment and onto the truck I was speechless. They drove the truck to our new home and unloaded it. Before leaving, the young men thanked my children and I for allowing them to serve us. We were incredibly touched and blown away by the entire experience.

So I wonder what would happen if we generously extended grace to each other. Would anger be replaced by joy? Could hate yield to love? Would greed be replaced by benevolence? Perhaps violence would yield to kindness and peace. I strongly believe that an outpouring of grace will cultivate gratitude, forgiveness, forbearance, and compassion in each of us. This is what makes the transforming power of grace so amazing. Tell me, have you experienced grace in your own lives? Would love to hear your stories.

GirlTrek: Teaching Black Women to Walk and Prioritize Our Health

Mon, 20 Nov 2023 07:13:31 GMT

I am Stephanie, daughter of Marva, granddaughter of Rose and Florence, great niece of Hattie, and great granddaughter of Henrietta. Each shaped and informed me. Spelman College prepared me to change the world.

My grandmother, Grandma Rose, walked everywhere long before it was fashionable. Born and raised in Ponce, Puerto Rico, Grandma Rose was a force. She was feisty, barely stood five feet tall, and to quote my grandfather, “weighed 90 pounds dripping wet.” Grandma Rose moved to the mainland United States in the early 1920s as a teenager to live with her father. He was a member of the United States Navy and fought in the Spanish American War. Grandma Rose ultimately settled in Toledo, Ohio.

Growing up, my brother and I visited our maternal grandparents for a few weeks each summer. My grandmother did not drive, but that never stopped her from doing anything. Because my grandfather worked weekdays, Grandma Rose, my brother, and I walked nearly everywhere. Going places with Grandma Rose meant walking fast and absolutely no dawdling. Her weekly routine included visiting Cousin, picking up, washing, ironing, and then returning Aunt Della’s laundry to her, going to the market, stopping by her church, and endless conversations with her best friend and neighbor, Mrs. Sanbury. My grandmother walked well into her eighties. At that time, dementia began gobbling up Grandma Rose’s memory leaving her vulnerable. By then Grandma Rose had left a rich legacy for our family.

Grandma Rose died a few months before her 99th birthday. For nearly a century, my grandmother held the sacred space that shaped the lives of her two children including my mother, three grandchildren, and seven great grandchildren. Grandma Rose is my family’s first Cosmonaut meaning that she broke barriers by leaving her childhood home at 16 years old, traveling to the mainland United States, and forging the path where decades later I learned to walk with intention, dignity, fearlessness, and grace.

Like Grandma Rose, GirlTrek is teaching black women how to walk. Founded by Morgan Dixon and Vanessa Garrison in 2010, GirlTrek is the largest public health movement for black women in the United States with a membership of nearly 1.2 million. I met Morgan and Vanessa at the annual Women and Power Retreat convened by the Women’s Leadership Center at the Omega Institute. Omega is a holistic institute that educates, integrates, and drives transformative change in those who enter there. This retreat focused on women doing power differently by gathering other women to build social movements that result in systematic change. The retreat started with nuggets of wisdom shared by Tarana Burke, founder of the #MeToo movement. During their session, Morgan and Vanessa shared how they used grassroots organizing strategies to build GirlTrek into a movement that gathers and equips black women to become our healthiest selves by walking. Even in the twenty-first century black women prioritizing our health and well-being is a revolutionary act.

After the retreat, I continued to follow GirlTrek and eventually joined the movement. Then in January 2020 something called the coronavirus set the world on fire and up ended daily life as we knew it. Sadly, the coronavirus pandemic did not stop the murders of black men, women, and children at the hands of law enforcement and private citizens because they were black. Now black women had to navigate the uncertain terrain of a global pandemic and process a complicated grief that bubbles over whenever a black person is needlessly murdered. Then in May 2020, we watched in horror as then police officer Derek Chauvin kneeled on George Floyd’s neck and listened to his anguished cries as he died. To create a safe space for black women to peel back our layers of grief and begin to heal, GirlTrek virtually launched the #Daughtersof conversations. The #Daughtersof series began with a spirited discussion between the international presidents of the Divine Nine black sororities. It continued with a conversation between Dr. Bernice King and Ilyasah Shabazz, the daughters of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. The series concluded with an invigorating discussion with two powerhouse legends, poet Nikki Giovanni and activist Angela Davis. The #Daughtersof conversations reminded black women that self-care and healing are possible and necessary even in our darkest moments.

Sensing our need for continued connection, GirlTrek kicked off Black History Bootcamp, a twenty-one day walking meditation to remember the women on whose shoulders we stand. Each day of bootcamp Morgan and Vanessa recorded a live thirty minute podcast episode devoted to a black woman or man who broke barriers or left an indelible mark on American history. Each episode forms a historical road map that shows black women when, where, and how we enter.

To date, GirlTrek has led four seasons of Black History Bootcamp beginning with our Foremothers and continuing with the Resistors, Spiritual Warriors, and finally the Cosmonauts. Those featured during the four seasons of boot camp include giants like Crispus Attucks, Eartha Kitt, Sister Souljah, Fannie Lou Hamer, Audre Lorde, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, and Harriet Tubman. The Black History Bootcamp podcast episodes are wildly popular and have been downloaded over 1.6 million times.

GirlTrek holds sacred space for black women to build resilience and gather the strength we need to navigate daily life. We walk to honor our ancestors who persisted through unimaginable hardship to forge the path forward that decades later we travel with intention, dignity, grace, and fearlessness. “For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” Matthew 18:20. NIV

Spelman College: Equipping Women to Change the World.

Mon, 20 Nov 2023 06:47:35 GMT

“For me, Spelman College is more than an academic institution. It is the place where I first tasted the freedom to be myself without the fear of rejection or judgment. Spelman has become my North Star.”

American women were often discouraged from pursuing a college education until well into the twentieth century. As a proud graduate of Spelman College, I know firsthand that women's colleges have a strong track record of launching women into positions of leadership and service. Consequently, these institutions are not only relevant but essential to the continued evolution of women's roles in our country.

My own experience illustrates my point. Spelman is a historically black liberal arts college for women located in Atlanta, Georgia. Founded in 1881 by Sophia Packard and Harriet Giles, Spelman has consistently graduated highly educated African American women who not only achieve in their respective fields but also live a life of service. I was 17 years old when I began my freshman year at Spelman. Academically, I was well prepared for college. But, I was shy, socially awkward, and lacked self-confidence. My Spelman experience changed how I saw myself. Spelman helped me identify and listen to my own voice. Several of my professors were Spelman graduates. These women were living examples of how Spelman had evolved over the decades before I became a student. They were not only my teachers but toughest critics and most ardent supporters demanding my very best during each and every class.

In her seminal book Their Eyes Were Watching God, writer and folklorist Zora Neale Hurston describes African American women as "de mules of the world." We are expected to always be strong without breaking and long suffering. Historically, African American women have been caricatured as promiscuous Jezebels, malicious Sapphires, and obedient Mammies. Spelman provides a safe space where these caricatures of African American womanhood simply do not exist beyond a classroom lecture or textbook. At Spelman, I had the luxury of coming of age in a nurturing environment specifically tailored to meet my academic, social, emotional, and spiritual needs as a young African American woman. Sadly, the current climate in America rarely offers the kinds of nurturing and affirming experiences that will feed the souls of "de mules of the world."

For me, Spelman College is more than an academic institution. It is the place where I first tasted the freedom to be myself without the fear of rejection or judgment. Spelman has become my North Star. It is my touchstone; the place where I come to remind myself of all that is still possible.

I have shared how Spelman College shaped and defined me. I cannot help but believe that alumnae from other women's colleges have had similar experiences and would love to hear your stories. Women seldom have safe places or opportunities that are entirely our own. In my case, the freedom that I experienced in a place so steeped in my history gave me the confidence to live bravely, use my talents and skills to be of service to others, and my voice to fiercely communicate my truth. Attending Spelman College saved my life.

As always be empowered, encouraged, and enlightened.

Rising In the Midst of My Depression

Fri, 17 Nov 2023 06:05:30 GMT

According to Mental Health America 13.2% of the population in the United States identifies as African American. Of this number, 16% or 6.8 million had a diagnosable mental illness within the last year. I am one of this 6.8 million. I have lived with an insidious depression since I was at least 15 years old. This year I will be 55. My depression is stealth like mercury. It can seep through any crack no matter the size. My depression can lie dormant and then quietly wrap itself tightly around my mind without detection. Once my depression gains a foothold, its toxicity sets my brain on fire. During some depressive episodes death, meaning suicide, stalks me daily pushing me to end my life. Over these many years my depression has relentlessly pounded and pushed me past the end of myself. Though incapacitating, for many years no depressive episode lasted long enough to swallow me in its rip current. That is until 2006.

In 2006, my marriage ended and I found myself starting over with two children, two months of outstanding mortgage payments, an empty refrigerator, and $120.00. This seismic life shift caused the pain that I worked hard to repress during my fourteen year marriage to explode forth like champagne from a bottle. The empty cavity that remained held a depression so firmly entrenched that for the first time I needed medication to manage it. I hate taking medication including antidepressants. When my symptoms abated, I stopped taking my medication. This had extremely serious consequences. Not taking my depression medications as prescribed will eventually trigger a mental health crisis. My crises are scary. A sense of foreboding settles upon me like dew. I mentally unravel. At times I am suicidal. I alternate between wanting to either turn myself into the nearest hospital emergency room or jump off the highest part of said hospital. Early on I would return to my then internist who patched me up. I then repeated the same destructive cycle again and again. Eventually, my internist asked me how many times I intended to do this to myself and by extension my children. My doctor’s rhetorical question gave me pause. In a moment of clarity I decided to follow her advice. Several years have passed since that moment of clarity. I still hate taking medication but know that following my treatment regimen is essential to my mental and physical wellbeing. However, I am currently transitioning to a new chapter that threatens to smash my peace into broken pieces.

Over the last seven months my son graduated from college and started his first full-time job. I also took my sweet baby girl to college. In a blink, my season of full-time mothering ended and I am now a solo mom empty nester. I am very excited for both of my children as they transition into young adulthood. This is their time. It is also my opportunity to reclaim mine. That said I worry that the transition from a life overflowing with activity to one of solitude will trigger a downpour of depression strong enough to push me into a crisis.

When I started over more than eleven years ago, I was beyond critically depressed, overwhelmed, and did not want to get out of bed. In those early days, my children were my reason to rise from my bed despite an overpowering depression. I had to dig deep and keep going. With my children gone, I wonder if I will value myself enough to rise in the midst of a depressive episode.

After eleven plus years of working to extract my depression from that empty cavity. All that remains are weeds. It is time to sod and reseed. My prayer is that these seeds will grow into what is true, wonderful, authentic, praiseworthy, gracious, and beautiful rather than the darkness and hopelessness that is depression.

Slowly I am evolving into the person that I was created and redeemed to be. And so I begin this new chapter committed to the work and vowing not to allow my insidious depression to break me. So mark this the first month of my new year and stay tuned.

I’ll be an empty nester soon. Now’s the time to reclaim myself

Fri, 17 Nov 2023 05:53:43 GMT

My time is up.

I have been mothering for more than 23 years. This month, my youngest child will leave for college and I will begin life as an empty nester. Several years ago, a childhood friend and I watched our mothers transition into their new life without kids.

Their misadventures in rediscovery included a lot of shopping. The tipping point came when my friend’s mother returned from one shopping trip with six pairs of flat black shoes: some plain, others with polka dots and others with bows. Our mothers eventually returned to themselves before we had to stage a shopping intervention.

As I prepare for my own transition, I find myself reflecting on my early years as an attorney, wife and mother.

These and other lived experiences are the foundation on which my next chapter will be built.

In 1991, I met the man who would later become my husband. I was married at 30 and my son was born a few months after our first wedding anniversary. My son’s easygoing demeanor made it easy for me to remain fully engaged at work and in the community. This changed four years later with the birth of my beautiful baby daughter. She did not sleep, cried nonstop, and clung to me like velcro.

I had planned to return to work at the conclusion of my four-month maternity leave. I couldn’t find anyone who I trusted to care for my daughter while she cried nonstop. I had not planned to leave the practice of law but my baby daughter needed me. This decision changed the trajectory of my life and career. With no game plan in hand, I stepped off the career ladder, took a deep breath and jumped. It was March 1999.

As the mother of young children my cup was filled to overflowing with little to no “me” time. I withdrew from all outside activities and my professional network. Without realizing it, I grew increasingly isolated from my friends and family. Looking back, I now know that my isolation grew out of an insidious depression that had taken root deep within me.

My 30s and early 40s became a frenzied blur of changing diapers, potty training, temper tantrums, story hour, school projects, homework, chess tournaments, soccer games, summer camp, basketball games, ballet classes, school programs, class holiday parties and a host of other activities. This frenzied pace prevented me from realizing that I was deeply depressed. Life as I knew it continued until my divorce in 2006.

I literally started over with two children ages 12 and 7, two months of outstanding mortgage payments, an empty refrigerator and $120. My marriage was over and I began parenting alone with no support. I was 42 years old, broken and beyond clinically depressed. Though I wanted to pull the covers over my head, I had to rise and care for my children who were experiencing their own pain.

After my divorce was finalized, I assumed that my educational and professional credentials would enable me to come roaring back. That did not happen. Over the next seven years, I made little progress in the direction that I wanted to go. I fell flat several times before realizing that I first had to heal and make peace with my depression before my personal bounce back could begin. The rest of my 40s were anything but fabulous. It was a time of tremendous emotional growth, healing and introspection.

Because of my soul work, I entered my 50s mentally and emotionally stronger than I had been in two decades. I am still healing and committed to living my best life now. Still, I didn’t realize my 50s would mark the beginning of major life losses and other seismic transitions. I am now painfully aware that life gives and takes away. Close friends have died or are gravely ill. Many of my friends have lost their parents. My own parents are elderly but in good health. Still, I know that their mortality looms large. My parent’s stoicism in the midst of similar life losses give me confidence that I will survive their transitions. I will survive and even thrive because my parents built resilience in me.

At 30 I was a young attorney, wife and mother. I was inundated with sometimes conflicting advice on how to live out each of these roles. It was stressful and exhausting. Looking back, I would tell my 30-year-old self to listen to my own inner voice, practice self-care and focus on being mindfully present with my children.

Let the rest go. Life will teach you the lessons that you need to live it.

I will be 55 years old this year. I have poured all that I am into my children. Now is their time to fly. As for me, I am standing on the precipice of my next chapter. I do not know what lies ahead, but it promises to be a bumpy and exciting ride.