⟫⟫⟫ Before you read:
this is not me Debby Downer-ing all over the place. This is just me being a real person with a little depression problem and the nerve to say it out loud. I’m doing better now— writing about it is usually part of how I get there. 🫶🏻

(I wrote this Saturday 4/25)

I’m coming off a near three-day depression sleep binge.

I couldn’t tell you how many hours of sleep I’ve had. I just know it’s been a lot.

I knew it was coming before it fully hit. I could feel it in the way I started staying in bed instead of getting up to make sure my kids were actually awake and walking out the door on time.

It went from setting my alarm early enough to make sure they were up, to calling their phones from my bed to make sure they were up, to eventually just trusting they had set their own alarms and would get themselves out the door.

Worst case scenario, they’d miss their ride or the bus and I’d have to take them.

The good news is they’ve actually done great. I’m really proud of them for that.

But I started realizing the depression sleep was incoming when I stopped waking up until way into the afternoon. I’d wake up a couple of times, never even looking at the clock, then close my eyes and go right back to sleep because I didn’t care what time it was.

If there wasn’t an appointment for me or one of my kids, if there wasn’t something I absolutely had to do, I was staying in bed.

The first couple of times, it was like, oh shit.
I didn’t mean to sleep that long.

Then it turned into going to bed already knowing that was exactly what I was going to do.

These last few days were bad.

The thing is, I don’t actually like sleeping the day away.
I don’t like wasting hours because I do think time is precious.

But sometimes I need to get away and shut myself off because I cannot possibly cope. That sounds dramatic, but there’s not really anywhere else for me to go to get away because… responsibility.

I’ll do what I have to do, even in peak depression mode, but it drains the living fuck out of me.

I’ve always been a fan of sleep, but then there was a stretch where I found myself again— actually— found myself for the first time. Ever. I figured out that I had likes and interests, and for a while I was on fire with wanting to do all of them.

Back then I barely slept.

Sometimes I got an hour a night.
Sometimes I’d nap when the kid I watch napped and get maybe four hours total.

I never really went to sleep in the same day.

If we didn’t have plans or extracurriculars on the weekend, then sure, maybe I’d sleep most of Saturday or Sunday away.

But that felt like catching up on sleep.

This doesn’t feel like that.

Lately, I can’t find the drive I had for the things I only recently discovered I loved. That part honestly breaks my heart the most.

Before, depression didn’t feel like losing desire to do things because I didn’t really have anything that felt like mine. It just felt like a heavier-than-normal bleh.

But now I know what it feels like to actually want to do something and still not be able to reach for it because depression is sitting on you like a fucking elephant

I hate that.

Not that I’d rather go back to having nothing for myself. But I really, really hate what this feels like.

Usually I don’t fight the depression sleep.

Most of the time, if I’m being honest, I actually do feel better after a good depression sleep. Just… not lately.

And that scares the shit out of me.

Because why is it hanging around this time?

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Depression sleep is weird.

Yesterday I forced myself out of bed to shower. I felt exhausted, and I had already slept so many hours it should’ve been medically offensive. I felt more tired right then, after waking up and showering, than I did before I went to bed.

I dragged myself through the shower, half-assed my after-shower routine, and then crawled right back into bed.

The funny thing about the sleep that comes after depression sleep— but is also still depression sleep— is that’s when it gets cozy.

That’s when my bed feels like a friend welcoming me back with open arms. I have a Sleep Number bed, and it adjusts to my preferred setting when I get in, so it kind of is like a hug.
Like, let me wrap around your body the way you need. At that point it doesn’t feel like I’m going there to hide.

It feels like I’m so tired from the depression sleep that now I need real sleep.
…or something like that.

So that sleep feels comforting and peaceful.

I drift off softly instead of heavily.

But the bitch of that is that the depression sleep is clearly not over.

Proof of that is how I slept an ungodly amount of additional hours after that.
There is no way a body should be able to do that. But mine does.

Then when I do finally get up and move out of my room and exist among the other people in my household, I am not at ease.

I’m on alert. High-strung. I need to move slowly.

Probably because I haven’t taken my meds in well over twenty-four hours because…
I was asleep.

That wake-up after the depression sleep—then the shower, then the cozy-extra sleep, then more depression sleep— leaves me feeling almost delirious.

Disassociated.

It happens almost every time I do a big depression sleep, and you’d think I’d drag myself out of bed just long enough to take my meds, even if it meant climbing right back into bed after.

But I don’t.

So then I wake up.

Eat because I haven’t eaten.

Refill the water bottle because apparently carrying one around isn’t enough to keep me from becoming a raisin.

Take my meds…

And guess what? I feel like shit.

And then I feel tired again. Not depression tired this time. The kind where I need a nap.

That is such a weird part of it—having to sleep off the tiredness that comes from too much sleep.

But it works like that every time. It’s a pattern. I know exactly what will happen like the back of my hand.

Today I got sick of feeling so blah and down and stuck in my head, so after I ate and took my meds and drank some water, I decided I needed sunshine.

I literally stripped down to my sports bra and panties, laid a blanket out in the yard, and went outside to lay in the sun.

Don’t worry. We have a fence.

It felt good.

I listened to the birds. One of them sounded like something from a video game and I still have no idea what it was.

The neighbor was mowing but thankfully he was almost done, so I didn’t have to be annoyed by that for too long.

The sun got warm enough on my skin that sweat started to drip, and then I’d hear a breeze before I’d feel it cool me down.

It made me ache to live near the beach.

Then I came back inside, put my pajama pants back on, then my sweatshirt, then my socks.

And then I napped.

A real nap. A tired nap. About thirty minutes. Not a depression sleep.

I woke up from that and decided to write about it.

But if I’m being honest, I know for a fact this depression isn’t over.
I can’t tell you whether I’ll depression sleep again the next time I go to bed.

I don’t usually plan it until I’m already there in it. Then I just choose to stay there

.

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Author’s Note:
This piece is for the girl I used to be. The one I didn’t protect soon enough. Writing it let me meet her again, hold her again, and finally love her the way she deserved the first time. If it finds the inner child in you, too… I’m glad we found each other.

I’m not weird…
I’m gifted and here’s why.

I saw that phrase—“I’m not weird, I’m gifted”— on a keychain in a souvenir shop in Florida with my mom. I didn’t have use for a keychain because I was too young to drive. But I wanted it anyway.
I wanted it displayed.

So I picked the next best thing: a T-shirt.

This was peak airbrush-shirt era, so my mom had it airbrushed for me on a white tee with red lettering and a little black shadowing. I remember the look of it perfectly. And I wore it constantly.

I was a weird kid.
But weird wasn’t a compliment if other kids thought you were weird.
So I’m not exactly sure why I wanted to wear that across my chest like a billboard, but something in me— maybe the part that would grow into adulthood and finally heal— knew that “weird” actually meant fun, bright, alive, different, and honestly?
Fucking cool as hell.

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I was the loud kid.
I talked nonstop (yes, there’s a whole Substack post about that here).
I wore colorful shoes—including a yellow-and-black pair that screamed “bumblebee.”
I wore yellow parachute pants.
I did silly, random, awkward things.

For someone who desperately didn’t want to be an outcast, I drew a lot of attention to myself—even though some subconscious part of me knew exactly what I was doing.

And kids were not kind.
They hadn’t been kind for as long as I can remember.
I wasn’t just weird—I was also the fat kid. A very easy target.
I was bullied relentlessly. And despite what adults love to preach, words do fucking hurt. They cut deeper each year— preschool to kindergarten to first grade to second to third…
Honestly, all the way up to eighth.
And yes—as an adult when you just remember them.

Third grade was the worst.
Seventh grade still stings a lot too.

For a long time, when I thought about that girl, I felt embarrasseed as her. I didn’t like her. Even as a grown woman. I’m 39 now, and instead of embarrassment, I feel something deeper now: sorrow. A kind that settles in your chest and expands until it aches. Because I know exactly how much she wanted to be accepted. To be liked. To belong.

My heart breaks for her.
Not just because other kids hurt her, but because I kept hurting her too.
I shamed her. I belittled her.
I called her weird, and not the reclaimed, empowering version of the word I use now.

I talked about her the way the bullies did, even long into adulthood. I was doing the very same thing that broke her and she wasn’t even a thing anymore.

If time travel existed, I’d go back and hug her first. Then I’d apologize for all the years she didn’t know I was still hurting her from the future. When I think about that—how deeply I abandoned her—my chest genuinely aches.

But here’s the truth:
I did eventually return to her. I carried her with me and I never let her go.
I owed her that.

The thing about kids is that they are forgiving, and I’m genuinely sorry. She believes me. She has forgiven me. Talking about her like she still exists may sound strange—that’s okay—but if you’ve never healed your inner child, you won’t understand. I didn’t either— not for decades. And then… one day, I finally did.

The moment I finally got it… It did feel like stepping back into the past and wrapping my arms around her. Not out of pity, but out of honor. Out of recognition. Out of fierce, protective love. Something exactly like what I give my own kids since day one.

She wasn’t weird or gifted. That’s just a fun way to describe what she was.
She was funny. She was vibrant. She was full of light. She was cool as hell.
She was herself—and I’m incredibly grateful she stayed with me long enough for me to grow into someone who could finally understand her.

She reminded me to be unapologetically weird and that it’s not something to hide. It’s something to reclaim.

Because if she could go through all she went through and still embrace her weirdness, then so could I.

I’ve always been a little weird,
I think I mentioned that, right?

But I also hid inside myself a lot. So as an adult—I would get embarrassed easily if I felt like I said or did something dumb.
I never would step outside of my comfort zone.
I didn’t laugh as much as I would have liked because some things I find funny others found…annoying.

I think I wanted to fit in more than anything. But at the same time, I didn’t.
I never have. But I worked really hard at doing it anyway.

I hated to be judged…so I just tried to not call much attention to myself. Sometimes my weirdness would still show up—but I could easily tell when someone thought I took it too far.
Then I’d deal with the repercussions of overthinking it all and that sucked.

The first “out of character” thing I ever did as an adult was get a tattoo—my third one. The first two were tiny, hidden. You’d never even know they existed.

But this one?
I put it right on my outer forearm.

It’s big. Colorful. And impossible to miss. A watercolor tattoo of a momma elephant with her two babies—representing me and my kids(elephants are my favorite animal—my kids are my favorite people).

I was around 33.
I didn’t tell my mom beforehand. Not because I had to (I was a full-grown-ass adult), but because some part of me still felt shame, like I was breaking a rule no one wrote down… but everyone enforced.

So, I just did it.
Then sent her a picture.
"Isn’t it pretty?” I asked.

She said yes.
And then she asked what she already knew: “Did you get that?”

And I told her I did— for myself.

She dropped it. My dad? He didn’t.
He called it silly. Obnoxious. Dumb.
Too big. Too visible. Too…much.

It pissed me off but didn’t make me regret it. Not even a little.
Actually, it inspired me.

As soon as it healed, I got another tattoo on the same arm, the inside this time, just as big, even more colorful. A tribute to my favorite Disney ride, It’s a Small World. Most people hate that ride. The repetition. The song.

Not me!

I’ve always said I’d like to get stuck on it—you know, when the ride malfunctions and you gotta wait a bit before you get moving again.
Weird, right?
Exactly.

(Fun fact! Did you know they have to cut the hair of the animatronics because the humidity from the water makes their hair “grow?” 🤯)

Yep— my dad hated that one too.
If tattoos weren’t so freaking expensive, I probably would’ve finished the entire sleeve. They’re therapeutic for me. I love the way they feel.
Weird, right?
Exactly.

I’ve never received any negative comments about my tattoos (other than from my dad). At least not out loud. Although I’m pretty sure people have their opinions.

I DON’T CARE.

I have a shirt that says, “Tattoos Are Trashy,” which confused the shit out of my youngest child at first.

”Mom… you have tattoos.”
Yes. Exactly. That’s the point.
She get’s it now.
She understands to own what you like, screw other people’s opinions and just DO YOU.

So anyway… The shirt, the tattoos… they’re all little tributes to that kid who once proudly wore I’m not weird, I’m gifted.
She would think I’m so cool now.

Honestly… Her opinion is the only one I care about besides my own.
Luckily, we’re the same person.

One day I’ll tell you more of the things that make me weird in the coolest possible way. I’ve got quirks just waiting for their moment. Embracing the weird is part of my healing. Writing honestly is part of my healing.

And this space… This one, right here—is where the two finally meet.

Stay tuned.

🗣️ Talk to Me

Did you have a “weird kid” version of you too—the one who felt too loud, too different, too emotional, too much?
Tell me about them.
Tell me what they loved, what they feared, what they needed.
I’ll hold them with you. 🫶🏻

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There are two types of trauma.

Physical trauma is a sudden, severe bodily injury—wounds, broken bones, organ damage. You can see that trauma. No one tries to deny it.

Then, there’s psychological trauma.
This is an emotional wound from a distressing event that overwhelms your ability to cope, shattering your sense of safety and security. It lingers, reshapes your thoughts, emotions, behaviors, and how you function. It’s invisible. It’s personal. And it varies wildly by individual.

Sometimes physical trauma also results in psychological trauma, and people tend to understand that more easily.

But what about the trauma that comes from things people can’t see?
That invisible trauma is just as real. In fact, it’s often more defining.

(And from here forward, the only form of trauma I am referring to is psychological trauma—but I’m only calling it “trauma” to avoid typing an extra word because I’m lazy, okay?)

Why People Don’t See Their Own Trauma

People often struggle to recognize their own trauma when it didn’t involve anything physical. They think things like: “I don’t have trauma.” “Other people have it worse.” “It wasn’t that bad.”

That is survival speaking. This is exactly what happens when you have normalized the pain. It’s“I’m fine” speaking when you’re anything but fine.
It isn’t the absence of trauma— it’s the skillset trauma gave you. And that skillset can cause you to gaslight yourself into believing what happened wasn’t real, or worse, that is was acceptable. (It wasn’t.)

Most trauma comes from other people who have caused you physical or emotional harm. And often, victims have the hardest time placing blame on that person.

Self-soothing, Self-Blame, and Why Trauma Makes No Sense… Until it Does.

People who haven’t had the luxury (it’s not a luxury) of learning how to self-soothe often blame others too easily. It is a form of emotional avoidance that dodges accountability and is a quick escape from feeling guilt.

Most victims of trauma—who haven’t quite named it— don’t place blame on others because they hold the accountability for the mistreatment.
They say things like, “maybe if I hadn’t…” or “I deserved it.” And this is exactly why they struggle to name their trauma.

But listen to me— naming it is the first step.
You must name your trauma.
Then you have to feel it. And yes— it will hurt.
That hurt is what frees you.

Once your brain finally recognizes your pain is valid, the first emotion that often surfaces is… anger.
Anger is the doorway to clarity— but only if you walk all the way through it.
If you don’t, that anger calcifies into bitterness and bitterness hurts people who never hurt you. Trauma explains the struggle, but it never justifies hurting others and it doesn’t vindicate you continuing to live with the pain.

It should ignite you to want to feel better, be better, and do better. That is precisely why you must eventually reach… forgiveness.

Forgiveness Has Nothing to Do With Them

Forgiveness is not:
“I’m okay with what happened.”
“We’re good now.”
And it definitely does not mean:
“You’re welcome back into my life.”

Forgiveness is:
“You hurt me, but you don’t get to keep hurting me.”
It is closure for yourself. And you need closure to heal.

This is the turning point when— “I am this way because I’m trapped in it” becomes “I’m not that way because I grew from it.”
It is the difference between someone who evolves from their pain and someone who is waiting for life to change around them.

The Hardest Step: Acceptance, Detachment, Accountability

This step is hard.
You cannot leap straight into forgiveness.
First comes the truth—t’s loud and unignorable.
Then grief and anger—and those two feelings are interchangeable and can be simultaneous.

But eventually… There comes acceptance.

Acceptance is not approval— it’s acknowledgment and it leads to detachment. Detachment is the moment you stop holding the pain and start holding the person accountable for causing it. You learn that holding onto the pain—the anger and the grief— won’t allow you to move forward. Someone’s inability to apologize is their limitation. You don’t need them to heal what they broke.

Only then can forgiveness begin.

Forgiveness is not erasing the past; it’s integrating it.
You fold it into who you are without letting it decide who you become.
It’s what happens when the wound is no longer open.
You’re healing and choosing growth instead of stagnation.

It’s the moment you say:
“This happened to me. It shaped me. But it did not define me. I define me.”
And that is when you pull your energy from the past and take it back for yourself.

Healing Isn’t a Finish Line— It’s a Choice

Once you reach this point, the work does not end.
You are healing, not healed. You will never be healed— because “healed” is a finish line— and humans don’t get those.

There will always be memories, triggers, echoes of the past…
Everyone agrees you can’t change the past— but you can’t erase it either.
You owe the version of yourself who had to survive it recognition because being triggered doesn’t have to be a setback.
Healing isn’t linear— it’s motion.
It continues only because you choose it.

Healing is the coexistence of acknowledging:
The past is real, the pain was real, the imprint remains… but the choices belong to you now. That’s responsibility and freedom sharing the same breath.

Sovereignty

So honor the story— just don’t live in it. Hold the wound— but stop bleeding from it. Remember it— but don’t let the memory become your ruler. Stop dragging someone else’s bullshit into your future because resentment is nothing but deadweight.

Doing this is not just growth— it is sovereignty. It’s the moment you know yourself as awake, clear, and profoundly self-aware. That kind of forgiveness creates real wisdom— closing doors and opening lifetimes.

🗣️Talk to Me

This is your reminder that trauma looks different for everybody.
It’s real.
It hurts— that’s why it’s called trauma.

You don’t have to talk about your trauma here. But if you want to, you can.
Drop a comment or send me a DM.
Sometimes we need a neutral witness to help ourselves stop the internal gaslighting.

If you’re on the journey of healing from trauma, I’m proud of you and I send you so much love!

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