Some days you just need to go outside

It is still May — the month of mental health awareness. And today I felt a little down. So I did the one thing I know helps. I went outside.

I took a walk by the lake today. It was windy — really windy — but I sat down, ate my dinner by the water, and just looked up at the sky. And something about that wind, that wide open sky, those clouds moving fast... it cleared something in me. I came back feeling fresh.

By the lake — windy, wild and beautiful today

I kept looking up — the sky never disappoints

This is May — Mental Health Awareness Month. And I have posted a video on my YouTube channel about why we need to talk about mental health, why we need to find people and talk to them. Because silence can be the most dangerous thing of all.

And today, here on my blog, I want to open up a little more. Because I believe in honesty. And because if my story helps even one person feel less alone, then it is worth every uncomfortable word.

In 2023, my depression reached a point where I couldn't take it anymore. I attempted to take my own life. I am not proud of it — and even today, it still hurts me to talk about. I am still working on myself every single day.

What brought me to that moment was a combination of so much pain — fear, loneliness, the deep wound of being abandoned by my mother when I was five years old and not seeing her again until I was twenty-five. That kind of pain doesn't just go away. It lives inside you, quietly, until one day it gets too loud.

I survived. And I am still here. And some days it comes up — not the desire to do it again, but the memory. The self-judgment. The why did I do that. I am still learning to be gentle with myself about it.

Today when I felt the heaviness coming, I didn't stay inside with it. I put on my shoes and I walked to the lake. I let the wind hit my face. I ate my dinner watching the water. I looked up at the clouds — and one of them looked like an angel, wings wide open. And I thought: I see you. I am okay.

Let me tell you something that nobody talks about enough. Depression does not always look like someone who cannot get out of bed. Sometimes — most of the time — it looks like the most alive person in the room. And I know this, because that person was me.

It looks like someone who cooks for everyone. Who always has food ready, who makes sure everyone around them is fed and comfortable. Who laughs the loudest. Who smiles the biggest. Who wants to hang out more than usual — more than they ever used to. The person who is always calling, always texting, always showing up. Always wanting to be around people. And everyone looks at that person and thinks — she is doing so well. She is thriving. She is the light of every room she walks into.

But nobody asks why she cannot be alone. Nobody asks why she always needs to be surrounded by noise and people. Nobody sees that the moment it goes quiet — the moment everyone goes home and she is left with herself — that is when the darkness comes back in. And it comes back heavy.

For me, it was drinking. That was my substance. That was what got me through. And I want to be honest about this because I think a lot of people will recognise themselves in what I am about to say — even if their substance is something different. For some people it is alcohol like it was for me. For others it is something else. But the pattern — the pattern is always the same.

During the day, when I was sober, I felt frustrated. I felt low. I felt like there was something wrong with me that I could not name or explain. Like a heaviness that sat on my chest from the moment I woke up. I did not want to feel it. I did not know how to sit with it. So I would drink. And when I drank — everything changed. I would smile. I would engage. I would talk and laugh and be present. I would feel like myself. I would feel like the person everyone expected me to be. I would do things. I would be happy. I would be there — really there — in a way I could not manage without it. And everyone around me would say, oh, that is her. That bubbly girl. That warm woman who loves people and makes everyone feel welcome.

And they were not wrong. That was me. That warmth, that love, that laughter — it was real. But it was also borrowed. And I was borrowing it from a place that was slowly emptying. Every time I needed to drink to feel okay, I was going further and further into debt with myself. And eventually — the debt became too much.

In 2023, my depression reached its worst point. I had been carrying so much for so long. The pain of being abandoned by my mother when I was five years old — not seeing her again until I was twenty-five — that wound never fully healed. It lived inside me quietly for years. And when everything else started to fall apart around me, that old wound opened back up, and I did not know how to survive it.

I was in a situation where I felt completely trapped. I wanted to go back home. But the grandmother of my child made it clear — if you leave, you leave without her. And that cut through me like nothing else ever had. Because I know what it feels like to be a child whose mother left. I lived that. I carried that my whole life. And the thought of my own daughter one day feeling what I felt — of her growing up wondering why her mother left — I could not do it. I would rather die than become the thing that broke me.

And so I made a decision that I am not proud of. I took all the pills that were in the house. I crushed them into powder. I mixed them with white wine. And I drank it. I ended up in the emergency room. I survived. And I am still here today — still working on myself, still processing, still learning to forgive myself for that moment.

I am sharing this not because it is easy. It is not easy. Even writing it now, I feel it. But I am sharing it because I know there are people reading this who are living exactly what I described — the smiling, the cooking, the laughing, the substance that gets them through the day — and they think nobody sees it. They think they are hiding it well. They think because they are functioning, because people call them bubbly and warm and full of life, that they are okay.

You are not hiding as well as you think. And that is not an accusation — it is an invitation. An invitation to stop performing and start talking. Because the performance is exhausting. And you should not have to do it alone.

This is also why I am asking everyone reading this to look more carefully at the people around you. Not just the ones who are visibly struggling. Look at the one who is always happy. Look at the one who is always cooking and hosting and gathering people. Look at the one who drinks a little more than usual but is always fun when they do. Ask that person how they are really doing. Not "are you okay" where the only acceptable answer is yes. Really ask. Sit with them. Give them a space where the true answer is welcome.

Because sometimes the loudest person in the room is the one screaming on the inside. And sometimes the most loving person — the one taking care of everyone else — is the one who needs the most care of all.

Mental illness does not always wear a sad face. Sometimes it wears your favourite person's smile. And that is exactly why we cannot stop talking about it. Not just in May. Not just during awareness month. Every single day.