Breathing Through the Weight of Depression

Depression has been an ongoing struggle in my life—one that does not simply disappear no matter how much effort I pour into healing. Lately, it feels heavier than usual. Getting out of bed has become a battle, and being present in my own life feels nearly impossible.

I am doing all the “right” things. I go to therapy, I show up to work, I try to keep up with self-care. Yet it often feels like everything I have repressed for years has finally risen to the surface, pressing down on my chest so hard I can barely breathe.

What makes this moment even more difficult is that I have been here before. This is not the first time depression has consumed me. Yet now, I am juggling even more: my internship, a demanding dual master’s program, the dream of starting a business, and the possibility of stepping into new professional roles. On the outside, it may look like I am thriving. Inside, it often feels like I am barely keeping my head above water.

At the same time, I am moving forward on paper. I am showing up for job interviews. I am holding a 4.0 GPA in my MSW/MPA program. I keep chugging along, doing what I am “supposed” to do. But that does not erase the deep exhaustion that comes with wearing the mask of strength while inside you feel like you are drowning.

In the middle of this struggle, I remind myself that we do not just live in reality—we create it. Our thoughts, emotions, and beliefs shape how we move through the world. Donald Hoffman, a cognitive scientist, argues that what we see is not reality itself but more like a user interface, a set of symbols that help us survive, not necessarily the truth of existence. In other words, the world as we experience it is not fixed; it is filtered through the lens of our minds.

This means that even in the midst of depression, there is space—however small—for me to shift how I engage with what I see and feel. I may not be able to change the weight that presses on me overnight, but I can slowly shape my own interface: choosing compassion when I want to be harsh with myself, choosing hope when despair feels louder, choosing small acts of presence when escape feels easier.

I often find myself wishing money and bills did not dictate the pace of life. I wish I could take a real break—one that allows me to stop, breathe, and heal without the pressure of survival looming over me.

Depression is not about weakness. It is about carrying invisible weights every single day while still moving forward in whatever ways we can. Some days, survival itself is an achievement.

I do not have all the answers. What I do know is that continuing to show up for myself, even imperfectly, matters. Even on the days I cannot breathe easily. Even on the days when the weight feels unbearable. Because beneath the heaviness, I still hold onto hope that one day I will not just be surviving, but truly living.

The Quiet That Found Me

For most of my life, silence felt like a threat. Growing up, it often meant tension was in the air—something unspoken, something waiting to erupt. I learned to fill every empty space with conversation, movement, and noise. It was easier to stay busy than to sit still with whatever the quiet might reveal.

I carried that habit for years, across countries, jobs, and chapters of my life. Honduras, the U.S., Nicaragua, Costa Rica, China—wherever I landed, I surrounded myself with people, tasks, and responsibilities. My mind was a constant loop of “what’s next?” I spoke when I didn’t need to. I agreed to things I didn’t want. I moved so fast I barely noticed the days passing.

But life has a way of forcing you to pause. Loss, grief, and healing stripped me down to the essentials. I faced the conversations I had avoided, let go of the people who no longer walked beside me, and allowed myself to feel the years of pain I had kept tucked away. I burned through anger, hurt, and longing until there was nothing left to spill.

Now, silence feels different.

It is no longer an empty space to fill but a rich, steady presence. I crave it—not to hide from life, but to watch it unfold without the need to control every piece. In the quiet, I see the light shift in my home as the day moves on. I hear my own breath. I feel my shoulders loosen. I notice that life keeps going whether I push or simply let it be.

And here is the unexpected gift: I am happy.

Not because life turned out exactly as I planned—far from it—but because it turned out in a way that feels right. The chaos has softened into something livable, even beautiful. I have work I care about, relationships that matter, and a deep trust that I can handle what comes next.

Silence no longer swallows me. It holds me. It reminds me that I have survived, that I have grown, and that I am exactly where I am meant to be. 

Where Life Ends and Begins: Reflections at a Baptism

Today, I am sitting in a church pew, watching my cousin’s baby being baptized. A new life is being celebrated—welcomed, blessed, and embraced by family and faith. And as I sit here, surrounded by the coos of a newborn and the quiet murmurs of prayers, tears begin to pour from my eyes.

They are not tears of sadness alone, nor joy alone. They are something more complex—something sacred.

Because while I witness this beautiful beginning, I cannot help but think about one of the most defining endings of my life: my father's death. The months leading to his passing, the caregiving from afar, the grief, the unresolved truths—all of it still lives in me. Life ended, but it didn’t just leave a void. It left a storm, a reckoning, and a transformation.

And now I watch new life begin. I wonder, Will I ever create life? Will I ever be granted the privilege of building a healthy family—one rooted in love, healing, and truth?

There is something powerful about witnessing both ends of life’s spectrum so closely. It humbles you. It sharpens your awareness of time, of relationships, of what truly matters.

Today, I am also overwhelmed with gratitude. My maternal cousins—some of whom I have not always treated with the tenderness they deserved—have stood firmly by my side. Through my father's death and all that followed, they have shown up. No grand gestures, just consistent love. They have been a source of strength when I needed it most.

In contrast, I have felt a haunting silence from my paternal side. Not a single call. Not a word of comfort. I understand why—it is easier to stay silent than to confront the truth I dared to speak. I challenged the narrative, broke the unspoken code, and rejected the manipulation that still runs deep in the hearts of my father’s sisters. And for that, I have been cut off. But I feel no regret. I know my truth. And I know their silence speaks volumes.

Still, this moment is not about bitterness. It is about clarity. It is about honoring the people who show up, and releasing those who cannot. It is about marveling at the cycle of life—how it breaks us, heals us, and sometimes surprises us with grace in the most unexpected places.

As I hold back another wave of tears, I know this much: I am alive. I am feeling. I am reflecting. And I am moving forward—with hope, with pain, and with the unwavering desire to live fully and truthfully. 

Wings of Gratitude: A Reflection at 30,000 Feet

There is something sacred about boarding a plane. No matter how many times I’ve flown—whether across oceans, over mountains, or just a few states away—I always find myself pausing to reflect. Maybe it’s the liminal space that exists between takeoff and landing, or the fact that flying demands a kind of surrender. You’re literally not in control, and yet somehow, it always feels like a reset button for my soul.

As I sit here waiting for departure, I’m overwhelmed with a mix of gratitude, disbelief, and a quiet resolve. I think about the life I’ve lived so far—how often I’ve packed bags not just with clothes but with memories, hopes, grief, and sometimes heartbreak. I’ve lived in countries most people only dream of visiting. I’ve loved, lost, stumbled, rebuilt. Some moments have been beautiful, others have been complete shit. But still—this life? It’s been mine. And I wouldn’t trade it.

For so long, I feel like I was just reacting—surviving one chapter after another. I let circumstances shape me, mold me, and sometimes derail me. But now, something is shifting. I’m not just boarding planes—I’m boarding intention. I’m no longer reacting. I’m choosing.

I’m choosing to live with purpose. With presence. With my eyes wide open and my heart—while still bruised in places—beating strong and clear.

Maybe the last 40 years were for becoming. Maybe the next chapter is for being. And if that means letting go of everything I thought I was supposed to be, or all the expectations that were never really mine, then so be it.

Here’s to flying forward—not just in the air, but in life.