Some mornings wore a polished face,
while shadows gathered underneath;
I learned to move through crowded rooms
with silent storms behind my teeth.
Functional, they called the way I stood,
the way I answered, smiled, survived;
but preservation was the breath
that kept the smallest flame alive.
I turned inward, not to disappear,
but to listen without blame;
self-reflection held a lantern
to the places I could name.
Self-awareness came more softly
than the thunder I had feared;
it taught me every feeling passing
did not mean I had disappeared.
I found help in open doorways:
counseling where truth could speak,
therapy that shaped new language
for the pain I thought made me weak.
I sat with breath in meditation,
let the present hold my hand;
I honored medication, too,
as one bridge across difficult land.
A support system grew around me,
not to carry all my weight,
but to remind me I was worthy
before the healing felt innate.
So I keep learning better coping,
gentle tools for harder days:
rest, honest words, boundaries,
and asking for help in brave new ways.
Overcoming is not instant,
not a sunrise without night;
it is choosing, breath by breath,
to preserve my inner light.
“Anonymous”
Functional Depression Survivor
