“So, how did you stop being depressed?”

or: How I Stopped Being Depressed (And Started Living)

I was at Kevin Delaney’s Deep Dive Dream Center in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh for his Saturday night Journey Into Love meditation when another meditator asked me this question.

It caught me off guard - not because of the question itself, but because it had been so long since I’d felt actively depressed.

That’s not to say I don’t get sad. I experience the full spectrum of emotions (sometimes several spectrums per hour). But if you’ve been depressed, too, you know it’s not just sadness. Depression is like a weighted blanket that covers your soul, dulling everything and suffocating you under an endless loop of bleak thoughts and lifeless sensations.

It’s a blast. /sarcasm

For most of my life, depression (and his BFF anxiety) followed me like a shadow. It hit its lowest point - meaning I hit my lowest point - back in the mid-2010s.

The Spiral

Not to be confused with spiral ham.

2015 was rough. I was recovering from my second car accident in three years. The first was totally my fault and resulted in a DUI, but the second one happened despite me doing everything “right.” Biking home, wearing a helmet, following traffic laws, bright clothes, lights on - yet a driver still plowed into me, sending me flying over the hood of her SUV.

The pain in my hip (which turned out to be a torn labrum) kept me awake all night, and my thoughts kept me spiraling:

I did everything “right”. And a “bad” thing still happened.

I could rationalize, even excuse, the bad things that happened as a result of the DUI accident. But this? It shook something deeper. My mind started whispering a slow, seductive solution: If I weren’t alive, I wouldn’t have to think these thoughts anymore.

Therapy and the Choice to Stay

Skip arm day for lay-down-your-arms day.

Despite how convincing that voice sounded, something in me wasn’t ready to un-alive myself. I knew I hadn’t tried everything (and I knew Shakira would be disappointed if I didn’t try everything).

So I sought out a therapist - on my own terms, for the first time in my life.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with therapy. I had gone to a few family counseling sessions as a child, but those were under my mom’s orders. We’d go until she disagreed with the counselor, then therapy became a “waste of time”. Plus, being a Highly Sensitive man in a toxic patriarchal society that tells us to “man up,” I wasn’t exactly raised or encouraged to talk about my feelings. To whit, the only time I remember my dad talking about his depression was to end an argument with my mom.

But I wanted to live. So I decided to eschew patriarchal programming, found the nearest therapist, and booked an appointment.

And that decision changed everything.

Writing, Awareness, and Thought Tallies

Protip: You don’t need a trilby to be a writer.

I spent two wonderful years working with my therapist before he retired (JUST as we were cracking open my abandonment issues - great timing). In that time, I’d quit my job to play at being a writer (to quote Bukowski) and discovered a new way to engage with my thoughts.

One of the most valuable books my therapist recommended was Embracing Your Inner Critic by Hal and Sidra Stone.

Not only did this book help me meet, work with, and appreciate my Inner Critic, but it also introduced me to my Inner Child and parts work - a concept I would have found far too woo before I started therapy.

Turns out, getting to know your own mind makes a difference.

Other books that helped me:

• Bird by Bird by Anne Lammott

• Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

• Radical Acceptance by Tara Brach

• Learned Optimism by Martin E. P. Seligman

I used to think that if I could just get my mind in order, I would be a great writer. It wouldn’t be until 2021 - after I had, in fact, gotten my mind into much more of an orderly and healthy place - that I would come to have the awareness to understand (nay, inner-stand) that “writer” was just another egoic attachment, just another thought pattern I’d come to identify with.

There is something to be said about a mindset shift into awareness that helps immensely with depression. I became more and more aware of my mental landscape and started noticing the kinds of thoughts I was repeatedly having.

In a move that would have impressed Victor Zsasz, I decided to use a marker to make tallies on my left hand each time I had a thought I didn’t want.

By the end of that November day, I had 80-90 tallies covering my hand.

The next day, it was down to 50-60.

That awareness shifted everything.

I was so blown away by how the simple act of becoming aware of my unwanted thoughts had reduced them that I texted my brother a picture of my hands to show the difference. I kept this tallying practice up into the new year. By then, the tallies were down into the single digits, and I was much more in control of my life.

And it made me curious. If I could change my thoughts, what else I could change?

Embracing the Woo (Without Losing My Mind)

I can smell this picture.

By the time the pandemic hit, I had already been meditating. But lockdown gave me the space to go deeper. I started trusting in a force greater than myself. Back then, I called it the Universe. It took years (and some untangling of religious trauma) before I was comfortable using the word God.

Meditation. Presence. Surrender. These weren’t just abstract concepts anymore. They were survival tools. And the more I leaned in, the lighter I felt.

Yes, it’s a slippery slope from meditation to beginning to understand your own Divinity.

So, How Did I Stop Being Depressed?

...is that arrow leading folks right into traffic??

There’s no one-size-fits-all answer, and I wouldn’t be so flippant as to say “just think happy thoughts” (after all, I’m not Edgar Albert Guest). But here’s what worked for me:

• Therapy. Professional support is invaluable.

• Writing. Engaging with my thoughts helped me reclaim them.

• Awareness. Simply noticing my thoughts changed everything.

• Meditation. Learning to sit with myself, rather than fight myself.

• Surrender. Trusting that life is bigger than my current persepctive.

I still feel things deeply. I still have rough days. But depression no longer feels like my default setting. And if it ever tries to creep back in, I know I have tools to meet it.

I’ll leave you with some words from Your Soul’s Gift by Robert Schwartz.

“If one could look at depression, anxiety, fear, or any other negative emotion as just one part of the self that is confused, then there would be another part of the self that could look at this emotional part with an understanding and a gentleness that would reassure it. But, people tend to identify completely with their depression, anxiety, or fear, and then they feel unbalanced. They cannot find their core, their true self, anymore. The first thing to realize is that you are not your fear. You could see the fear, for instance, as a child who comes to you for help. By seeing it that way, you will feel that you are much bigger than the fear. You can get in touch with the child, speak with it, and understand it. Sometimes a therapist can play the role of this parent or guide. The key always is to find a place in your awareness from which to look at the fear and not be the fear.”

So, if you’re struggling: You don’t have to battle your mind. You can work with it.

And, I promise, there is a way through.

Terrifying, Dangerous Freedom: Staring At a Wall to Meditate

We’ve all heard the phrase “watching paint dry” used to describe something as boring or tedious.

But what if watching was the point?

This was one of the many - many - thoughts I had the first time I tried a Sōtō Zen meditation practice introduced to me by my friend and fellow woo-dude, Justin Pickul. After he described it, I was actually excited to try - because it takes all kinds to make the world go ‘round, even folks who enjoy staring at a wall.

Maybe once you try it, you’ll be one of those folks, too!

Gaze and be amazed!

Justin explained that to do this practice, you find a fixed point on a wall and then let your gaze rest there for a set amount of time. He recommended deep breathing and mudras, and we decided to swap journaling prompts after the time had ended. We agreed to just write to the prompts for a set duration without stopping to think or edit.

We did this practice at the same time, but were apart. When it was time, I set my timer for 30 minutes, and with my favorite mudra in hand (ha!), I got busy doing nothing.

I mentioned that I had a lot of thoughts during this sit. Some of them include an intense excitement about the fact that cinnamon exists and a great love for the pockmark on the wall I’d selected as my focus. At different times, 30 minutes felt both like a long time and not very long at all. Just before the timer went, I felt like I could have stayed in that space forever.

While we went for 30 minutes, I’m sure a shorter duration would work. After all, 30 minutes might seem like a lot of time if you’ve never meditated. This practice can meet you where you’re at, so if you’d like to try it, don’t feel confined to these guidelines.

But then you might not fall in love with the pockmarks in your wall like I did.

Or cinnamon…

If you’d like to try this practice yourself, here are the prompts Justin sent. Below them, I’ll include both my unedited response and a slightly tidier version. As you’ll see, I kinda combined all four prompts into my response.

Prompts:

1. It might be dangerous to… (repeat this line for every 3 or 4 sentences)

2. A Stillness entered the forest… (just write and follow the thought)

3. Free form on the qualities of water.

4. As a child, I didn’t like…

My unedited response:

It might be dangerous to live alone. You'll forget you don't need people to make you happy. You can get used to the sound of your silence and not have to worry about the disharmony of others' silences. It might be dangerous to keep your boundaries rigid. More and more there will be less people you let through. And it might be dangerous when you realize how little you needed them in the first place. Because needing can become needy oh so quickly. As a child, I didn't like how needy my mother was. It wasn't her fault, but it wasn't my responsibility. And it might be dangerous to become that detached to our traumatizers. Because if we can detach from the injurers AND the injuries, what is left? It might be dangerous to be that free, to allow yourself the freedom to be free. It might be dangerous to start giving yourself permission to be exactly as you were created, to be as innocent as you were before the programming started. It might be dangerous to travel back to that innocence with your newfound detached maturity. Or it might be empowering. It won't be like it never happened - water isn't dissociating from being water when it's frozen into ice. Instead, it will be like someone cast you in a role - violently, dangerously, unfairly. But you can choose to stop playing. Or you can choose a different interpretation, like how ancient Persian poems can only ever be rendered in English. Unless you speak the native language, you'll only ever be able to guess at the intent behind the interpretation. It might be dangerous to realize the native language has always been forgiveness, and you can be as aware as Jesus, Buddha, Vishnu, etc., but without forgiveness, it's hollow, performative approximations. Yes, you have every right to feel victimized; you have the free will to choose that role. But if you claim to have even an iota of awareness, you must understand that forgiveness is the only role to choose. And it might be dangerous to be so unconditionally forgiving, because more and more, your expectations of others will drop to zero. Your outlook can be positive, but the outcome can always be unremarkable. And so you might follow stillness into the woods one day. It might be dangerous, because you might want to stay. 

My edited version so it looks nice and purrdy:
It might be dangerous to live alone—not for the obvious reasons, though. Not because you’ll be lonely, but because you might figure out you’re not. You might start liking the sound of your own silence and wonder why you ever tolerated the clamor of other people’s dissonance. You might get too good at keeping your own company, too comfortable not having to explain yourself. You might find yourself so at home in your own solitude that the idea of inviting anyone else into it feels like vandalism.

It might be dangerous to keep your boundaries locked up tight. The longer you hold them firm, the fewer people you’ll let in. And then one day, you’ll realize just how little you needed anyone to begin with. That realization? That might be the most dangerous thing of all. Because needing is like quicksand: one step, and you’re already neck-deep in needy.

As a child, I couldn’t stand how needy my mother was. It wasn’t her fault—life had bruised her in ways she couldn’t hide—but it wasn’t my responsibility, either. So I detached. And here’s the thing about detachment: it’s a blade that cuts both ways. If you can free yourself from the people who hurt you and the scars they left, what’s left?

Freedom. Big, terrifying, dangerous freedom. The kind that whispers, “You can do whatever you want now.” The kind that lets you be who you were before the world told you who to be. Innocent, unprogrammed, unscarred. But here’s the twist: getting back to that innocence with the wisdom of all you’ve been through? That’s not just freedom—it’s power.

It doesn’t mean you forget what happened. Ice doesn’t forget it was water, but it doesn’t cling to that memory, either. It transforms. You were cast in a role—unfairly, maybe violently—but you don’t have to keep playing it. You can walk off stage. You can write a new story. Or reinterpret the old one—like ancient Persian poetry, where every translation is a guess at the original intent.

Maybe the original intent has always been forgiveness. Without it, all the awareness in the world is just a hollow performance. You can choose to feel like a victim—no one can take that from you—but if you dare to call yourself aware, forgiveness is the only real flex.

And forgiveness? That’s dangerous, too. Because it clears the slate. It drops your expectations to zero. You stop expecting anything of anyone, and suddenly, their silence doesn’t clash with yours anymore. Your outlook lightens, your load disappears.

One day, stillness might call you like it’s the only sound left in the world. Maybe you’ll find yourself in the woods, where the silence isn’t empty but alive—its rhythm natural, effortless. It’s the kind of silence you harmonize with instinctively, without trying. Like exhaling. And the longer you stay, the easier it gets, until you realize that staying isn’t a choice at all. It’s just what happens when you stop resisting.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

Or maybe, it’s the safest.