Ro Naday is a Montreal-based writer who describes their piece as a “glimpse into how depression shapes my mind, shared in the hope of reaching those too afraid to speak their truth”. Ro recommends reading the giant Spider-Verse comic book; it’s a beautiful read for comic lovers and soothes the soul.
If you or anyone you know is struggling, do not hesitate to ask for help.
Canadian Mental Health Association
Every morning is a solo battle fought in the quiet of my room, with only the soft hum of the outside world creeping through my window. I lie in bed, cocooned by layers of soft blankets, the warm embrace of my stuffed animals surrounding me like silent guardians. The covers are pulled tight to my chin—a fortress against the outside world. The thought of leaving this haven, of facing another day, feels impossible. I know what's waiting for me: work, expectations, assignments. All this, and I can barely manage to get out of bed.
The room around me, a reflection of my mind—clothes scattered across the floor, clean and dirty mixed, like the state of my own mental clarity. Dishes sit in the corner, abandoned, a reminder of the tasks I should’ve already completed. The weight of it all hangs over me. The demands pile up. My harsh voice tells me to be better, but depression isn’t something that can be outrun or fixed with effort. It’s a sea fog that smothers every desire, so thick that it blocks out the guiding bulb of the lighthouse. If I manage to find my way to the tall, looming building, reaching the light at the top is a journey not fit for my soul, giving way to fatigue, and motivation seeping out of me with every step.
Depression is more than sadness or demotivation. It’s not just the tears, the sobs, the obvious signs of grief. It’s an emptiness that seeps into my bones, a black hole that pulls everything in — my energy, my thoughts, my will...my life. Waking up feels like being dragged out of drowning sleep into a heavier nightmare. My body resists movement, as if it's anchored to the ocean floor. The thought of feeding myself, of getting dressed, of conversation, of doing anything at all is already too much — enough to make me want to vanish completely. When I finally force myself into the kitchen, my mother finds me there, always hunched over, like my spine has given up, too.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her voice laced with concern. The words hit the air and float uselessly around me. The silence hanging between us, like a room full of unplayed instruments, each note waiting for a sound that never comes.
"I’m just tired," I mutter. I wish I could just be tired. There’s a planet pressing down on me.
She sighs, a sound more impatient than understanding.
"Come on, you need to suck it up," she says, like it’s that simple. "Everyone gets tired. Life’s hard for everyone. You’re not the only one going through stuff."
And there it is. The sharp sting of dismissal, as if my struggle is just an inconvenience, a weakness that should be easily shrugged off. I want to scream that it’s not the same, that it’s not just being tired or having a bad day. I don’t have the words. They’re heavy, like cold metal chains coiling around my tongue, too thick to move.
"Try harder," she continues, oblivious to the fact that I’ve been trying so hard for so long. "You’ve got to push through."
I nod weakly, the buzz of silence growing louder as I retreat further into myself, knowing that once again, my pain has been reduced to a simple, dismissive phrase.
The world moves around me in a blur. Everyone else seems to be racing ahead, their energy boundless, while I move in slow motion. My mind wrapped in molasses, slow and thick, everything taking twice as long to reach me. Focus is a foreign concept. I can’t keep up, and no matter how much I try to push through, my thoughts scatter and my energy falters. I’m trapped in a silent spiral, like a ghost floating through a world I cannot touch.
It’s more than just the physical exhaustion. This world has a stigma around mental health that makes it feel like there’s no room for weakness. I can’t afford to show cracks. I can’t afford to ask for help. I don’t want to be labelled as weak, as someone who can’t handle the pressure like everyone else. If I reach out, what will the world think of me? What about my mother? Will they see me as someone who can’t hold it together? So again, I keep it to myself, even as I fade away, just as I was told.
I sit in the coffee shop with my friends, surrounded by laughter, the hum of conversation filling the air, but it feels like it’s coming from a distance. A handwritten chalkboard menu hangs above, an array of steaming lattes and delicate cappuccinos, each drink offering a little promise of comfort. I’m here, physically, but it feels like I’m gone, drifting. Behind the counter, the barista moves with practiced ease, steam rising from the espresso machine in wisps that twist into the air. I scan the horizon, but there’s nothing. I think I hear something—distant voices, or is it just the wind? But even the thought of someone, anyone, coming to find me is nothing more than a cruel illusion, like the mirage of an island that never appears. I am alone. A wooden raft creaking beneath me as if it, too, is slowly giving in to the pull of the ocean.
"So, what’s up with you today?" a friend asks as they dig into their sandwich.
I smile widely, baring all my teeth. It’s automatic—like the switch that flips every time someone asks. "Oh, nothing. Just tired."
"Tired?" they repeat, their voice teasing. "You’ve been saying that a lot lately."
I laugh thinly. "Yeah, just... school stuff."
No matter how much I try to smile and nod, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like an outsider in a room full of people I love. They’re all so alive—so fully in the moment—while I’m just... not.
Another wave of conversation swells around me, and I sink deeper into my chair, pulling back, retreating into the quiet space I’ve carved out for myself. The hole in my core fills with guilt. Everyone has things they’re dealing with, so why can’t I push through? Why can’t I just do what’s expected of me? It’s not like I’m incapable, right? Depression distorts the truth, telling me I’m not good enough, that nothing will ever be enough. When I mess up, even in the smallest ways, that voice grows louder, more persistent. It tells me that I’m broken, that I’m failing as a person. The burden lingers, a constant presence I can't shake off, monolithic and suffocating. It doesn’t care how hard I try or how badly I want to succeed. It holds me in place, keeps me stagnant, no matter how desperately I want to break free.
I don’t know why, but I keep going. Maybe it’s because, somewhere deep inside, I know that even on my darkest days, I can still get through. I look in the mirror and smile. I’m more than this, more than my depression. Going about my daily life might feel like an insurmountable obstacle, but the small victories like just getting up, just showing up, — they mean something. I’ve learned that survival is about moving forward, not just succeeding. I haven’t lost the battle yet and I don’t plan to.
I may not have the answers, or be able to push through every challenge, but as long as I keep going, even if it’s just a bit at a time, I know I haven’t sunk too deep into my bed. That, for me, is enough.
incredible piece :0 enlightening use of the word ´bulb’ 💡💡
This is fantastic 🥹👏🏿