“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.

Welcoming Back Your Prodigal Parts

Recently, while sitting in meditation, I was reminded of the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

If you don’t know this 2,000-year-old classic tale, don’t worry - let me hit you with an update even the Gen Z-ers will get.

There was this one dad with two sons. One day, Lil Bro wakes up and decides he’s got that main character energy. He goes up to his dad like, “Ayo pops, let’s cut to the chase—just give me my inheritance now so I can go live my best life.”

And for some reason, the dad was like, “Say less,” and just hands him the bag, no questions asked!

Lil Bro wastes NO time. He packs his bags, hops on the nearest Uber donkey, and peaces out to some faraway land where he goes full-clown mode, acting like he’s got that Jeff Bezos money. Just absolutely wilding—buying bottle service, renting chariots he can’t afford, throwing the most unhinged benders known to mankind. Man thought he was the CEO of YOLO.

But plot twist—he wasn’t. Because one day, BOOM. Wallet empty. Bank account on life support. His credit score is now a crime scene. And THEN, as if the Universe personally wanted to dunk on him, a whole famine hits. Lil Bro is struggling.

So he gets the only job he can find—PIG DUTY. Literal pig duty. Imagine going from popping bottles in VIP to rolling in mud with barn animals. Man went from Hard Rock Cafe to actual hard labor. And to make it worse, he’s so hungry he’s eyeing the pig slop like it’s a five-star Michelin meal. But guess what? Nobody even offers him a single bite. Not even a crumb.

That’s when he has his wait… am I the problem? moment. He’s like, “Hold up. My dad’s employees eat like kings, and I’m out here trying to split a meal with Porky. Nah, this ain’t it.” So he humbles himself real quick and decides to go home with the Dad, I messed up speech locked and loaded.

So he pulls up, rehearsing his sad-boy monologue, but before he can even say a word, his dad sees him from a distance and just yeets himself toward him like it’s the finale of a K-drama. Full sprint. Big hug. Tears. Hallmark moment. The son tries to start his monologue, but the dad’s already yelling at the servants like, “Yo! Get this man a fresh fit, some bling, and some new kicks. And oh yeah—fire up the grill, we’re having a party! My son was basically an NPC and now he’s back IRL!”

Meanwhile, big bro was out working in the fields, being responsible and whatnot. He comes home, hears music and dancing, and is like, “What in the Coachella is going on?” He asks a servant, “What’s the vibe?” And the servant’s like, “Oh, your bro came back and your dad threw a whole feast for him. We got Wagyu on deck.”

Big Bro? Fuming. Straight-up refuses to go inside. Dad comes out like, “Son, why you mad?”

And Big Bro just pops OFF. “Bro. I have been grinding for you. I have been the perfect son. Never fumbled the bag. Never broke a rule. And you never even gave me a lil goat to throw a cookout with my boys. But THIS GUY—who ran through your money like it was Monopoly cash—comes crawling back and you throw him a whole Coachella?”

Dad sighs and hits him with the ultimate wisdom drop: “Look, my guy, you’ve been with me this whole time. Everything I got? Already yours. But your brother? He was out here lost, basically spiritually bankrupt. He was out here acting like an absolute goof. And now he’s back. We gotta celebrate that!”

And that’s on unconditional love.

So why does this ancient story still matter today?

Besides making you hungry…

Prior to that meditation, I had attended one of Dr. Mia Hetényi’s monthly online grief gatherings. I found Mia a few years ago, and I’m so glad I did. I’ve learned so much about grief from her, and often find myself falling back on the tools and tips she’s shared with the other folks of her global Dreaming Awake Community. Her work has been an integral part of my healing journey.

During that gathering - the first of the year, I believe - Mia said something about how Inner Child work can quickly turn into child abuse.

We must be careful that in our zeal to heal we don’t talk to our Inner Child the way we may have been talked to as children. The good intention of healing can quickly sour if we’re trying to force a part to change - or worse - shame it into changing.

I wasn’t new to this idea, but I had never heard it framed so viscerally - as Inner Child abuse. And it was in the front of my mind that day during that meditation.

There I was, on my meditation rug, tracing the traumas through my body when I landed on something under my ribs - a flash. Just a ghost of a past self, some forgotten part. A lost child.

I held my hands on that part, applying light pressure. I began talking to this part, tenderly, gently. I borrowed a trick from IFS and told the part that I was a safe, 37-year-old adult before I continued speaking encouraging, flowery words to the part. And while I noticed a hint of something deeply shifting, I realized the shift wasn’t about my words - it was the energy and intention behind them.

Instead of worrying about the “right” words to say so part would understand that it was safe for them to be there, I shifted my approach and doubled down on the energy of acceptance and love, and I added in a healthy dose of excitement - of celebration - that the part was coming back to my conscious awareness. And where there had been only a hint of a shift before, now there was full-blown tectonic movement. I wrapped my arms around my midsection and felt that part collapse into a hug he’d been longing for since his creation over three decades ago.

It wasn’t long after that meditation that I met another part, except this part was much older - from my mid-20s. I was fortunately aware enough to notice how I was speaking to that part, and once I confirmed that he was about 25, I was able to speak more frankly. Still sincere, but a bit more cheeky, with a little sarcasm. He received it, and understood, and then I switched into that energy of joyful celebration. And much like the younger part before him, this older part fell deep into my loving self-embrace.

Awww…wood you look at that.

No matter how long our parts have been left in the shadows of self-preserving adaptations, we can take a cue from the dad in the Parable of the Prodigal Son. We can throw an all-out Coachella when a part feels safe enough to step into the light. And while it’s great if you can pinpoint the age at which a part was formed, it’s not really necessary for the healing to happen.

This is a concept that might be a struggle for some to wrap their heads around. It certainly was for me, but 99.999% of the time, the story doesn’t matter.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not discrediting your experience, and I’m certainly not saying the trauma didn’t happen. It absolutely did. But your mind doesn’t need to know the narrative in order to allow the body to heal.

As someone who writes, can you imagine how maddening it is to hear that the narrative doesn’t matter?!

Next you’re gonna say the Oxford comma doesn’t matter.

Regardless of whether your parts were created when you were 5 or 25, your only responsibility is to welcome them back with unconditional love, like the father of the prodigal son.

And yes, I know word-nerds will be quick to point out that prodigal actually means someone who is wasteful in their spending, but I like alliteration.

So the next time a lost part of you comes knocking, don’t just open the door - roll out the red carpet. Celebrate its return. Because every piece of you, no matter how long it’s been gone, deserves to come home.

And if you're ready to do this work with guidance, reach out - I’d be honored to walk this path with you.

You bring your forgotten parts, I’ll bring the Wagyu.