Memoirs of a Messy Mind: Healing from Depression — Learning to Begin Again Every Time I Fall

The Beginning

I never really knew what came first — the stress or the depression.

In Wild Moon Healing, I wrote about my depression. As an author, I admitted that I couldn't find the words. So I created timeline journaling to express how life can stack itself on top of you until you can’t tell which weight started the collapse. That’s how it was for me. For years, I kept pushing, fixing, organizing, managing — until my body decided it was done pretending everything was fine.

When I was finally diagnosed, I couldn’t open my mouth without crying. Not because I felt sad — I didn’t feel anything, really — but because my body had something to say that I had silenced for too long. Every time I tried to speak, the tears spoke for me. It wasn’t emotion; it was release.

Fast-forward to now — years later — and I still take Wellbutrin every morning. There was a time when I thought I was “better," so I dropped my dosage. Feeling unstoppable, I told myself I didn’t need it anymore. But I was wrong. I crashed, hard. My doctor didn’t even hesitate when I called; she just said, “Let’s get you back on what you were taking.” She knew what I didn’t want to admit — that this is part of my rhythm.

Last summer, I messed up my meds again. Not on purpose, just carelessly. I fell into a dark place I thought I’d outgrown. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t reach for help. I just… disappeared into myself. My house became a disaster. I didn’t open the blinds for days. Even a few of my houseplants died — I couldn’t give them light because I couldn’t face it myself. That’s always my first sign now: when my space stops feeling sacred.

I know what helps me — connection, movement, sunlight, sound, touch, nature — but depression steals the energy to reach for the very things that heal it. I’m a people person who’s alone too much, a healer who sometimes forgets to ask for help. I crave nature because the forest doesn’t ask me to perform. It just lets me breathe.

This isn’t a story with a happy ending or a neat resolution. It’s just truth.

I’ve learned to live with my depression the same way I live with lunar cycles — knowing there will always be dark phases, and that doesn’t mean the light is gone. It just means I’m between breaths.

Some days, I’m the healer. Other days, I’m the one who needs healing from depression.

Either way, I’m still here — beginning again.

Telling the Truth About Healing From Depression

For a long time, I didn’t know what “telling the truth” about my depression meant. I thought being open about it was enough — saying I have depression, like naming it would somehow lighten the weight of it. But the real truth isn’t just in the admission. It’s in the moments you don’t want to talk about.

It’s the pile of dishes you keep walking past.

It’s the unanswered text messages that feel like mountains.

It’s sitting on the edge of your bed, wondering why you’re so tired when you’ve done nothing at all.

It’s knowing exactly what would help — a walk, a shower, sunlight — and still not being able to move.

And sometimes, it’s just getting out of bed.

That’s the part people don’t always understand — the battle that starts before your feet even hit the floor. It’s not laziness or weakness; it’s the weight of your mind pressing down on your body. Some mornings, lifting the blanket feels like lifting the world.

That’s the truth. The part that people don’t see. Depression doesn’t always look like crying in bed or being visibly sad. Sometimes it looks like silence. Like apathy disguised as rest. Like going through the motions because you promised yourself you would, even if your heart didn’t show up.

And yet, this is where I’ve found the most grace. Because every time I fall apart, every time I lose my rhythm, I learn something new about myself.

I learn what safety really feels like. I understand that healing isn’t linear — it’s lunar. It moves in phases. Sometimes bright and full, sometimes shadowed and still.

Telling the truth means admitting that I can be a healer and still be healing. It means accepting that medication doesn’t make me weak — it helps me stay in the world long enough to remember my strength. It means recognizing that depression doesn’t define me, but it does shape me. It’s one of the ways I learn compassion — for myself, and for everyone walking around pretending they’re fine.

The more I tell the truth, the lighter it gets. Not because the depression disappears, but because the shame does.

Beginning Again

Every time I fall, I think I’ve failed — like I’m back at the start again, erasing all the progress I made. But the truth is, beginning again isn’t failure. It’s faith.

Each time I begin again, it looks different. Sometimes it’s big and brave — cleaning the kitchen, opening the blinds, walking outside barefoot just to feel the earth hold me. Other times, it’s smaller — brushing my teeth, washing my face, or simply remembering to take my medication.

Those things might sound ordinary, but when you’re in the thick of depression, they’re not small at all. They’re proof that somewhere inside you, there’s still a spark that wants to care for you — even when you can’t feel it yet.

My beginnings are quiet. They don’t happen in one moment of grand motivation. They happen slowly — like dawn, not fireworks. It starts with a single act of willingness. One honest breath. One small movement toward life.

I’ve learned to stop waiting for the “right mood” to come back before I live again. Healing doesn’t wait for inspiration — it grows from consistency, from choosing to show up for yourself even when you don’t feel like it.

Nature taught me that. The forest doesn’t rush its own return. It dies back and blooms again when it’s ready — rhythmically, faithfully, without shame for the season it’s in. I try to do the same.

Beginning again means giving myself permission to be unfinished — to have bad days, to grieve the light, to still believe it’s coming back.

Every time I fall, I learn that falling isn’t the opposite of healing.

It is healing — the exhale before the next inhale.

Still Learning

I’ve learned that healing from depression doesn’t always look like growth. Sometimes it seems like a pause. Like pulling back to protect the little light that’s still flickering inside you.

Last August, I deleted all my available appointments. I didn’t want anyone booking a Reiki or breathwork session with me when my energy wasn’t whole. I didn’t want to pour from a cup that was already cracked. For a while, that decision made me feel like I was letting people down. But now I see that it was an act of integrity — a way of honoring both myself and the work I love.

I’m not a clinical psychologist. I’m a real person — a human being walking this path alongside the people I serve. I speak with a therapist and a coach monthly, and I still meet with my own Breathwork mentor regularly. This is part of my rhythm of healing, the way I stay accountable to my own growth.

The reason I became a holistic practitioner isn’t because I had it all figured out — it’s because these practices saved me. Reiki, breathwork, sound, meditation, and self-reflection helped me find peace when I couldn’t find words. They gave me access to something deeper than survival — a rhythm I could return to.

I used to think healing meant always showing up — pushing through, keeping the rhythm, being the strong one. But I’ve realized that sometimes healing means sitting down in the middle of the song and letting silence hold you until you can hear your own heartbeat again.

Depression has taught me that I can’t rush my way out of darkness. I can only meet myself in it — gently, truthfully, and without shame.

I’m still learning how to live with it. How to tell the truth sooner. How to reach out when the house starts getting messy and the plants start fading. How to remind myself that the dark days don’t last forever, and that light doesn’t need to be earned — only allowed back in.

When I’m in it — when the darkness settles in and the energy disappears — I can’t write about it. My words go quiet, the same way my body does. But I’m learning to write when I can, and to keep sharing these moments when the light returns. Because I know that my story, my experience, and my honesty might be the thing that helps someone else feel less alone in theirs.

The reason I dare to write this now is because my friend Shannon checked on me — and I was honest when I replied. She didn't try to fix anything. She just held space for me, saw me in my truth.

That moment of truth cracked something open in me. Even though I’m out of the darkness now, admitting just how dark it had been was a big step toward healing. Her simple act of checking in reminded me how powerful it is to be seen, and how connection itself can be medicine.

Some days, I fall apart. Some days, I begin again.

And both are sacred.

Author’s Note

I’m not sure I have the right words for all of this. Maybe that’s the point — maybe healing from depression isn’t about having the answers, but about being willing to speak while your voice still trembles. This is my truth today. It may look different tomorrow, but that doesn’t make it less real.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt that same heaviness — the kind that makes it hard to get out of bed, wash your face, or keep your world from closing in — I want you to know you’re not alone.

Healing isn’t linear, and it’s not loud. Sometimes it’s quiet, messy, and full of pauses. But every small act of care, every breath you take when you don’t feel like breathing, counts.

I’m still learning how to tell the truth about my depression — and to begin again, every time I fall.

If you are, too, then we’re already walking each other home.

---

Continue Your Healing Journey

If my words resonated with you, I invite you to keep exploring the rhythm of your own healing journey.

You can find my books — including Wild Moon Healing and Wild Moon Reflections — on Amazon, where I share how lunar cycles, energy work, and emotional awareness can guide you home to yourself.

And if you’d like to go deeper, my free masterclass, Reclaiming Your Rhythm, offers tools to help you understand your body’s energy, calm your nervous system, and reconnect with your inner light — one conscious breath at a time.

✨ Watch Reclaiming Your Rhythm free →