Journaling is such a powerful habit. In my life, journaling has been a constant companion. Writing has always been the tether that connects me to my truth.

When do our trauma wounds heal? When do the brittle scabs stop bursting open at every light-handed brush? When do the scabs harden to eventually scar?

When I started therapy last year, I was dealing with something known (my previously-diagnosed depression and anxiety disorders), but I was also asking a new question. Were some of the difficulties in my life thus far caused by undiagnosed ADHD?

I’ve lost count of how many times my dad has absolutely exploded in anger–to the degree of screaming and throwing things–and being unsure of whether or not he was going to hit anyone, including me. I can still feel the energy of his wrath reverberating through the house when his anger took control.

I worship at the Church of Antipsychotics. I have more faith in meds than a higher power. If I’m looking for salvation, it’s in an orange cylinder with a prescription refilled every month.

Engaging in life from a place of scarcity and control has only ever increased my symptoms of depression and anxiety, while engaging in life from a place of gratitude and trust has lessened their hold on me enabling me to actually do the things I long to do and be the person I long to be.

I want my children to live in a world where the label of a mental illness is not a shroud to hide under in fear. For me, that looks like telling my story. Silent for so long, it’s like a tiny drip of water from a rusty tap that’s trying to turn back on. I still pause, inhale sharply and have an internal debate as to whether to speak up when the conversation turns to mental health. I just…do. It’s too important not to.

If I had told my friend that I couldn’t get together because I had the flu, a migraine, or God forbid, I got in a car accident, I have absolutely no doubt that the response would have been sympathetic. So what gives? Why isn’t the response just as compassionate when it comes to mental health?

My children didn’t ask for this. They didn’t ask for life or for a mother who is unhappy. I don’t want my depression to be the part of the story they remember or long to change.

The news of relocating came so fast that I didn't even have time to let it soak in. I hit the ground running so fast that I was numb to the thought of leaving home. It wasn't until the unpacking was done and the empty boxes were hauled away that I had time to actually let it sink in. It hit me, I am starting completely over.

Life had ups and downs and she had concerns about various family matters, finances, and other things. But for an hour each morning, these were put aside as she allowed herself to feel the emotional freedom that comes from the movement and breathing that accompany running.

I come from a tight-knit family. We love each other deeply and keep in touch, whether via text or in person, often. So, when one member is hurting or celebrating, the rest of us feel it right there with them. Last fall, three huge events happened in our family’s life that were met with a strange mix of joy, grief, and fear: I gave birth to my first child, my oldest nephew passed away two weeks later, and my mom – our rock – was diagnosed with a serious case of bladder cancer two months after that. To say my emotions were in overdrive is an understatement.

On October 8, 2016, my life abruptly changed. The man I’d loved for more than 15 years took his own life. I was shocked, devastated, and lost in a sea of emotions while simultaneously trying to collect myself enough to face my two small boys, who were nine months and three years old. It was a moment that induced a fog that I had never experienced before. I have heard it described as “widow brain” but it was much more than that. It was the detachment and numbness that happened while trying to process my new reality, but it was also all the sadness, confusion, anger, and hurt that came with it.