Let’s talk about depression. Not the kind with sad music and teary close-ups in an indie film. I mean high-functioning depression, the masked crusader of the mental health universe. The type that throws on a “productive” outfit, shows up for everyone else, hits deadlines, posts fire Instagram captions… then collapses inside with a soul-level ache no one can quite see.
You know, that kind.
Mine doesn’t wear black eyeliner or play the victim. It wears a smile that screams, “I’m fine,” while quietly asking, “But do you still like me?” I’ve battled the invisible beast for years, smiling through breakdowns, performing excellence like Beyoncé at Coachella, except my backup dancers are anxiety, approval addiction, and occasional dissociation. I used to have this rule called ‘You don’t cry, never let them see you cry’, so you master the beauty in looking great with near teary-eyes, a little bit of water in your eyes becomes cute aesthetics in photos. The pain masked but pierce through your pupils.
Doing it in spite of depression is my unofficial resume skill.
There were days I couldn’t shower, but somehow managed to send kind emails. I skipped breakfast, but hosted panels. I couldn’t look in the mirror, yet I still showed up online because God forbid I disappoint anyone.
Let’s pause there: Approval is a hell of a drug. High-functioning folks overdose on it daily. We become Olympic-level performers and applause-seeking machines with curated grief and well-lit trauma. But the gag is, nobody wins. Not really.
What I’ve learned? You cannot heal while performing. You cannot recover while pretending. And no amount of praise will fill the parts of you that are quietly breaking under pressure.
Here’s the brave bit, I stopped performing for you. I started being for me.
I began naming the fog. “Hello, Sadness.” “What’s good, Fear?” I gave them space, but not the stage. I used the heavy days to rest my spirit, not guilt myself into productivity. I leaned into breathwork, because sometimes the most radical thing you can do is breathe like you deserve to exist. And I found the loophole: that tiny moment in the day when the sadness loosened its grip, 5 minutes of stillness, one inhale of clarity, one reason to try again.
I journaled. I wrote my truth down so it could stop living in my chest rent-free. And when I looked back, I realized something wild: I no longer felt what I wrote. That emotion had passed. And if it passed once, it could pass again.
Listen, this isn’t a TED Talk. I don’t have the fix. But I do have my truth: you can be sad and still sacred. Anxious and still amazing. High-functioning and still hurting.
And guess what? You’re allowed to pause. You’re allowed to say no, even if you’re good at saying yes. You’re allowed to stop performing joy and start building peace.
Someone I know once said, “Happiness is a choice.” And on the worst days, Camus reminds me: “In the midst of winter, I found there was within me an incredible summer.”
So breathe. Be. Begin again.
And do it for you this time.
