This Is What Daily Resilience Looks Like

A personal essay about therapy, depression, survival, and the quiet victories no one sees. If you’re struggling, this one's for you: you’re not alone, and this isn’t the whole story.

I started seeing a new therapist last week. My regular one is unavailable for a while, and at first, I told myself I didn't need a replacement. But the truth is, I need one now more than ever. Filling out that contact form to make that appointment? That was me choosing to fight for myself. And I'm really proud of that choice.

Why? Because it wasn't easy. I love my other therapist. She just 'gets' me. But I also realized that I need help. And I need it now.

When Everything Feels Unfixable

I'm dealing with the kind of pain you don't see coming. It's the kind I can't really talk about without breaking down most days. If I do talk about it, it can send me spiraling.

Some days I wonder if this is punishment. For something I did in a past life. Or something I did in this one without knowing. When I was too buried in my own grief to show up for someone else.

Normally I'm someone who makes lists, takes action, fixes things. Right now, nothing feels fixable. And I'm learning to sit with that.

This summer was supposed to be easy. Long walks. Writing. And more writing. Time to breathe. Instead, it turned into my own personal crash course in survival. And I'm passing.

What Resilience Actually Looks Like

But here's what I refuse to lose sight of: I'm still writing. I'm still working on the app I’m developing with my husband. Still here. Still putting words together, even when they're about falling apart. I'm still building something meaningful, and that matters.

Let me show you what daily resilience actually looks like. Because depression isn't always what people think it is. Maybe you're not sad all the time. Maybe you're just wondering where your spark went. Why you can't get anything done. I want you to know your spark is still there. It's just dimmed.

Here's what I'm getting up for every morning: Coffee with my favorite Chobani Coffee Cake creamer. Answering emails that matter. Writing my book, even if it's slower than I hoped. Writing content for the app that I can’t wait to launch. Getting dressed in clothes that feel like me. Color drenching my office-slash-guest room a crazy blue-green color (pictures to come soon).

These aren't the wins I planned for, but I'm calling them wins anyway. Under this new definition I've created, I'm winning daily.

That to-do list feels impossible every day. The basics are harder. On top of the usual symptoms like fatigue, sadness, and trouble sleeping, I'm also dealing with a loss of motivation. And that's the part no one talks about.

There's a basket of laundry that's been sitting for two days. Very unlike me. Some days the dishes pile up longer than I'd like. And I'm learning to be gentle with myself about the parts of me that feel different right now.

My husband built beautiful planter boxes and shutters. It took me almost a month to put flowers in them. But I did it. And only because he helped me with the lining and my sister helped me pick the flowers. That moment taught me something. Accepting help is also strength.

The planter boxes with flowers in them :)

And then there are other days, where I wake up, and look at myself in the mirror and give myself a pep talk. Telling myself that I've got this. That today is going to be a good day. That I can do anything I set my mind to. And then I do. I crush the day and fall into bed content and exhausted from getting stuff done.

Sometimes I wait for my husband to leave the house. Not because I don't want him around, but because I want to cry without hiding it. I want to fall apart without pretending I'm okay. I'm learning that falling apart is its own kind of self-care. Its own kind of practice.

I went and got my hair done the other day and felt guilty the entire time. I could barely make small talk. It was someone new that had never done my hair and I'm worried she now thinks I'm cold or unkind. I just didn't trust myself to say too much for fear I'd start crying in the chair. I was afraid I'd cry trying to explain why I've lost so much hair. Stress will do that to you. And I've had a lot of it.

But I went. I sat in the chair. I let someone take care of me, even though it felt uncomfortable. I invested in myself when it would have been easier to cancel. That's courage, too.

The Power of Showing Up

Years ago, I was going through another traumatic event. I had fallen into a similar hole. I still remember just being so hyper-fixated on my work. Of sitting down in the shower crying constantly. Wondering why this had happened to me. Of not being able to get out of my head. I can still remember the darkness that had engulfed me. And you know what helped me? A friend.

I can't remember exactly what she said but I can remember the feeling. The feeling of someone who cared about me. Who reached out to me in the darkness, grabbed my hand, and held it.

If it wasn't for her, I don't know where I'd be now. It took her just saying something to me to realize I wasn't okay. I needed to get help. I found a therapist the very next day.

Sometimes, you might be me in the situation. Deep in grief. Unable to see that something is wrong. You might throw yourself into your work. You might feel like you can't complete anything.

Every single thing you'd normally do with ease suddenly feels like one more mountain to climb. The dishes. The laundry. Just getting up in the morning and going through your routine. It can all feel like Mount Everest, when normally it's just life.

Other times, you might be the friend who notices someone you care about is drowning. They might pull away. They might seem detached. Lack motivation. Lose interest in what used to matter to them. And maybe that's when they need a helping hand. Maybe what they need is a real check-in.

You don't always realize how much impact a simple check-in can have. Asking how someone is really doing. Letting them know they don't seem like themselves. Offering to help in a small, specific way. That kind of presence can mean everything.

Now, I'm not saying every person showing these signs is depressed or going through something serious. People have off days. But reaching out anyway can still do so much good. You have no idea.

I saw someone the other day who I haven't seen in a while. After a few minutes of chatting, they said, "You're always so happy." And it hit me. I've been so deep in depression that I couldn't even see the light.

But they saw something in me. Even in one of my lowest moments, I still brought joy to someone else's day. That tells me something powerful about who I am underneath all of this. Even if it's harder for me to see.

Why I'm Writing This

So, why am I writing this? Is it for pity or sympathy? No, because even though I'm going through hell right now, I know things are going to be okay.

I saw a Substack Note the other day that asked: What three words do you want your readers to feel?

I picked: They're. Not. Alone.

That's the whole point of pieces like this. To say: I'm here too. I'm in the dark too. I'm still fighting.

I'm writing this because I want to tell someone else who's struggling something that's helped me. You can still write your story while you're going through hell. You can still change your story while you're in the middle of it.

I'm writing this because I wanted to show you what the daily practice of not giving up looks like. And it's more beautiful than you might think.

The Truth About Strength

But then I remind myself of this truth. I'm showing up for myself now. And that's exactly where healing begins. I can't be there for anyone else until I'm here for me. And I need to focus on that for now.

Instead of spending my days writing happily, or testing the app I'm developing with my husband, I've spent too many of them crying. Trying to claw my way out of this hole I've landed in.

But the thing is, deep down, I do know everything will be okay. I know it. Because at the end of the day, I've gone through hell and made it out alive. More than once.

What does resilience look like when you're drowning?

To me, it looks like fingernails breaking from trying to climb out. But I'm still climbing.

This is what it looks like when someone who can usually create a to-do list and easily tackle it one by one has to find a new rhythm. When your body and brain just won't cooperate, but you continue to keep pleading with them to try anyway.

This is what people mean when they say it's hard to get out of bed. And this is what victory looks like when you do it anyway, even if it takes three tries.

What people don't always see is that I'm still functioning. Still trying. Still attempting to smile at strangers. Still building something beautiful, even through the tears.

What they can't see is the choice I'm making, every single day, to keep going. To write one sentence. To answer one meaningful text. To believe that this chapter isn't the whole story.

Some days the practice is bigger. Other days it's just breathing. Today, it was writing this. And putting it out in the world in case it helps someone else feel a little less alone. Because you're not alone. This is just one chapter in your very long story.

Because yes, these are really tough times for me. And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re going through something really tough, awful, traumatic. And it’s during those times, where sitting down and crying is all you can do. But then, it’s also during those times that I try to remind myself that I am bigger than this pain. I am bigger than this trauma. I am bigger than what all of this is.

And I don't have to let other people decide how my story is going to go. And neither do you. You can choose each day to take it back. That's what I'm doing. And it's hard. Some days, grief tries to take over everything. And I have to fight it back. But building a life you actually want is never going to be easy.

From Down Here

I'm still here. Still practicing. Still learning that strength doesn't have to look impressive. Sometimes it just looks like getting through the day. And that's its own kind of bravery. And that's okay.

What I'm learning is this: resilience isn't about avoiding the fall. It's about what you do while you're down there. And how you use what you learn to help others. Not by fixing them, but by sharing the scary, uncomfortable truth. And this is scary. Talking about depression on the internet is scary. But it’s real. And if through this pain I’m going through, I can help one person, then it will be worth it.

So from down here, let me say this clearly. You're stronger than you know. You're not alone. And this is just one chapter.

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