Hold On.

Trigger Warning: post addresses mental health and depression.

This is depression.

All is well. Life is manageable. So much hope. So much joy and peace. The darkness is gone and although I never forget about it, I’m grateful for the light. What I don’t think I fully realize is that the light is fragile. And in a way, I feel like I know this but maybe not because one day—one random day. One conversation. One misunderstanding and all that I’ve worked for vanishes and I’m left in the dark again.

This is depression.

All of the tools to get out. To get me back to the light are useless. Nothing works and all I can see, feel, think is that I’m a piece of shit. That I’m stupid and childish for thinking I could live the dream of being a published romance author. That my novels could spread the good news of love. Because look at me—I’m in the dark yet again.

This is depression.

I get up the next day and exercise because, you know, they say it helps. It doesn’t help mainly because endorphins take time. I feel hopeless. Like it was all a lie. How could I be so naïve to think I could live in the light. The tears won’t stop. The thoughts won’t stop—they’re on a constant loop: you’re a piece of shit villain who can’t get your shit together.

This is depression.

I cry in bed. I can barely sleep. I think about my manuscript, and I can’t write. Can’t edit. Can’t do the one thing I love—the thing I can always do. My depression traps me in a loop of thoughts with no way out. It tells me that I’m mean and unlovable. That I’m too much like my father. That I’ll never be a good person. Never escape. Never live a free life. It tells me that I’m alone. That people are tired of hearing about mental health, especially mine. With no one to talk to, I lay in my dark room while my dog sleeps next to me.

Still crying, I get the urge to listen to Adele’s song “Hold On”. Full disclosure: this song came to mind the day before, but I couldn’t listen. As soon as I press play and read the lyrics simultaneously, I’m bawling because I feel so seen.

How can someone know how I feel? How can lyrics come from my heart, but I didn’t write the words? As Adele shares her pain, the song tells me to hold on.

Hold on/Let time be patient/You are still strong/Let pain be gracious/Just hold on


I write about love and I’m deathly afraid that I’ll never experience the love I write about. But the love I write about is love that accepts no matter what. I don’t write fantasies—I write about possibility and acceptance is a definite possibility because all I have to do is offer it to myself. Accept that sometimes the hurt is so deep and scary that I feel like I can’t escape. Accept that I’m afraid. Accept that I’m not perfect. Accept that I don’t know the future. Just accept myself and see the good. See the good and accept the bad. Accept it no matter what.

When I think about the song—how each word speaks truth. How it helps me to stop crying. How it helps me to write this post. I think Adele wrote her truth and regardless of the fear, the fans or music critics, she shared it. And because she shared it, I could hear it. That’s what takes my breath away. That’s what makes me think that maybe my stories have to be shared because I don’t know who, besides myself, needs to hear (read) the words.

This is depression.

And this is holding on.