This piece discusses personal experiences with depression and grief.
Depression didn’t arrive all at once for me.
By the time I recognized it, it was already there.
It’s something I have struggled with at certain times in my life, which always surprised me. I have always thought of myself as a happy, easygoing person.
The hardest times came during periods when my role in life was changing.
The first time happened in my early forties. My children were growing up and no longer needed me in the same way they once had. I had been a mother for over twenty years, and that had become a large part of my identity.
This wasn’t about anything they did—it was simply a change I wasn’t prepared for. I didn’t yet know how to redefine who I was beyond that role.
It came on quietly. So quietly that I didn’t even realize what was happening until I was already deep in it.
I hurt—not physically, but somewhere deeper. I withdrew from people and from things I had once enjoyed. And when it became too much, I slept. When I was sleeping, I didn’t hurt.
Eventually, I realized something was deeply wrong. I went to my doctor and got the help I needed.
It didn’t get better overnight, but with time—and with the patience and support of my family—I found my way through it.
I learned a great deal about myself during that time. I thought I had learned enough to keep it from happening again.
For nearly thirty years, life moved along well.
Until it didn’t.
My husband, Carl, whom I had been married to for more than fifty years, became ill and passed away.
My world changed in an instant.
I believed I was grieving in a normal way, whatever that means. But over time, something else settled in.
This time, it wasn’t the same as before.
It wasn’t the kind of depression I had known. It felt different—quieter, heavier, and harder to recognize.
I didn’t recognize it. I thought I was simply moving through loss.
But looking back, I can see that I was just marking time.
I lost interest in so many things. I didn’t want to go out or see people. I let hobbies go. I withdrew into my home.
My children brought me joy—as they always have—but beyond that, I wasn’t really living.
I even stopped taking care of my health. As someone with diabetes, that is a dangerous path.
It took something unexpected to shake me out of it. A situation that forced me to stop and take a hard look at my life.
Recognizing the apathy for what it truly was became the turning point.
That’s when I began to heal.
I took a serious look at my health and realized I needed to make changes if I wanted the rest of my life to be different.
I got my diabetes under control, and in the process, I lost forty pounds.
But healing didn’t stop there.
I have always been a writer at heart. As a student, I wrote stories, essays, and poetry. Later, writing became part of my work—as a crochet designer and as an editor.
In 2025, I began to explore writing in a different way. I had so many stories in my mind—from my parents, from my life—and I wanted to preserve them for my children and grandchildren.
As I began to write those stories down, something shifted.
I found healing.
I found purpose.
I was no longer just marking time.
My life began to feel meaningful again.
And in ways I didn’t expect, that sense of purpose continues to grow.
Through My Eyes, Gently 