Content warning: depression.

A year ago, I was slogging through the worst depressive spell I’ve experienced. Depression can be debilitating. Some days, changing my shirt or washing my face were huge triumphs. That’s just where I was.

It may have been the lowest I’d ever been, but it was also a space of intense focus and clarity. (And pain. Overwhelming pain, no doubt. What I’m able to do here, a year on, is come back to some other dimensions of the experience.) Doing the next right thing was the only thing I could do. I’ve heard other people describe this feeling, maybe in navigating chronic conditions, serving in caretaking roles, or living through trauma or crisis.

A year ago, I shared, “As I’ve been struggling, walking has become a nonnegotiable in short order. … It’s doing what I can to get my feet under me. It’s one foot in front of the other. And I mean all this literally and figuratively; they’re a package deal.”

I used the trail that passes through a nearby neighborhood. Even in total overwhelm, I got on that trail. I told myself, “Just walk until you stop crying.” It was an occupation. It was a prayer that my body could carry me through this thing. It was evidence-collection: I needed to teach myself that this would pass.

And it did. I walked down the path until I didn’t have any tears left, checked that box in my mind, and turned on my heels to carry myself back home.

Other days, I used the trail to start crying. “Just walk until you start crying.” And I did.

My job became very straightforward. Through. Get through. I was deep in a dangerous place. Even at the time, it felt absurd to juxtapose the simplicity of each “next right thing” and the critical nature of how those things would compound and save me over time.

That fall, I was in my first year alcohol-free. This sober stretch was already longer than the one I’d experienced when I was pregnant, so this was truly the longest time as an adult I had been made to feel the full force of my mental and emotional life. I wasn’t reaching for alcohol to “get through”: I had to choose each little action that would carry me someplace I actually wanted to get. No snooze buttons, shortcuts, or numbing agents.

Rest. Fuel. Move. Connect. Changing my shirt, washing my face, and putting on my walking shoes were ordinary miracles I could string together until I found myself someplace better.

Now, this fall of 2023, I’ve been moving through the one-year anniversaries of a lot of tough and pivotal moments. Honestly, a lot of what I’m feeling is relief. Maybe I’ve been holding my breath this year, waiting for the same season of mind to descend again with the fall. (I worked a lot on those feelings and thoughts, especially in therapy over the summer and early fall.)

I’m staying curious. It’s been hard to feel shadows of that time creep up every once in a while, but I’m trying to keep them in perspective and stay present with them. It makes sense that sometimes I’m afraid of being in that place again—it was a scary place—but I’m not there right now. I’m not exactly the person I was when I went in last time.

I did get my feet under myself last time. I showed up for myself. I wrote about it while it was still happening. That seems shocking now, a year later. I don’t think I give myself enough credit for brave or bold action—maybe because I already expect them from myself, as a baseline, a given.

And I’m lucky, too. I’m lucky my loved ones and some trusted professionals were already in my circle and were ready for me. There and ready, nothing but love.

I want to keep putting one foot in front of another. In stormy weather or clear skies, I want to remember that I have the power to do right by myself. It’s all I can do. It’s how I’ll keep making it possible for the best things to happen (as my father’s wont to say!).

I want to keep talking about things that matter. I want to keep weaving connections and sharing what I have to offer. I think that’s how you get lucky. Do what you can, show up to be the youest you in the world. The details will take care of themselves, won’t they?

And remember what a difference a year can make.

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