As I sit here trying to put my thoughts into words, I’m reminded of something I’ve said many times: I have been better, and I have been worse. Right now, though, I’m finding it hard to convince myself that things will get better. My depression feels heavier than it has in years, like a storm cloud that refuses to move on. My schizophrenia—that ever-present companion—seems louder, more chaotic, more relentless. It’s as though my mind has become a battlefield, and I’m not sure which side is winning. And truthfully, I don’t know why this is happening now.
Is it the time of year? Maybe. The holiday season has a strange way of amplifying everything. For some, it’s joy and togetherness; for others, it’s loneliness and loss. This time of year has always been a mixed bag for me—moments of warmth and love overshadowed by the painful reminder of what feels out of reach. Or perhaps this is just how mental illness works: unpredictable, inexplicable, merciless. Some days, the weight seems to lift just a little, like a fleeting moment of sunlight breaking through the clouds. But other days, it’s suffocating—a darkness so complete that it’s hard to remember what light even feels like.
I’ve been through years like this before, and yet, each time feels like the first. It’s not something you grow used to. It’s not something you can fully prepare for. The endless cycle of trying to hold on, the small victories that feel monumental, the crushing defeats that threaten to undo them—it’s exhausting. It’s humbling. It’s life with depression and schizophrenia. And yet, I’ve learned something over the years: I’m still here. Somehow, through it all, I’ve managed to keep going. And if you’re reading this, you’ve kept going too. That’s not something small. That’s survival. That’s resilience.
I can’t help but wonder what next year will bring. Will it be better? Will the storms subside? Will I finally feel like I’m not just surviving, but living? I hope so. I cling to that hope with everything I have because sometimes hope is all I have. It’s fragile, like a flickering candle in a windstorm, but it’s still there. It whispers to me that the story isn’t over yet. It reminds me that even in my worst moments, there’s a glimmer of possibility—of brighter days, lighter burdens, and a heart that doesn’t feel so heavy.
If you’re walking through a similar valley, please know this: you’re not alone. The darkness can make it feel that way, but it’s a lie. There are others who understand, others who are fighting their own battles alongside you. This journey is hard, unbearably so at times, but it’s not without purpose. The pain, as overwhelming as it is, can shape us, teach us, even strengthen us—though it rarely feels that way in the moment.
There’s something about these dark seasons that forces us to confront who we are, what we believe, and what truly matters. For me, it’s faith. It’s the belief that I’m held by something greater than myself, even when I feel like I’m falling apart. It’s the belief that my struggles aren’t meaningless, that there’s a purpose even when I can’t see it. And it’s the belief that no matter how deep the valley, there’s always the hope of a mountaintop.
So here I am, sharing these thoughts with you. Not because I have it all figured out—far from it—but because I want you to know that you’re not alone. That even in the darkest moments, there’s a thread of hope to hold onto. That even when it feels impossible, we can keep putting one foot in front of the other. Because we have before, and we can again.
Let’s hold onto that hope together. Let’s remind ourselves that even in the shadowiest seasons, there’s a chance for renewal and growth. Let’s dare to believe that next year can be better. And if it’s not, let’s dare to believe that we’ll find the strength to face it anyway. One step, one breath, one moment at a time.
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