Your husband has depression.” Those four words altered our lives forever.
I couldn’t muster a response to the pronouncement. I sat stunned. The psychiatrist glanced at me, then back down at the papers strewn about his desk. He was an older man, on the verge of retirement. He was well respected, well known, very kind, and had taken a liking to Andrew right away. Andrew knew the doctor liked him because he always placed Andrew as the last appointment of the day, so they could have more time together. The doctor truly believed in Andrew, and I knew I had to lean into his knowledge and experience because we couldn’t fix this on our own. Professional help was part of the sabbatical plan, but I wasn’t prepared for this.
“Andrew is on the low end of the spectrum. We are going to help him rest, and he will bounce right back. You don’t need to worry. I am very confident your husband is going to be just fine.” I didn’t speak. I wanted to leave; I wanted to escape this moment and pretend it never happened. The doctor wrote a few prescriptions—one for anxiety, one for sleep, one for depression—and handed them to Andrew, then sent us on our way. Outside his office, my mind was spinning. I’d anticipated a quick appointment, in and out, like most doctor’s appointments, and looked forward to our date night afterward. But those four words, your husband has depression, had disrupted my world.
A mountain of thoughts grew in my mind. Could we have avoided all of this? Isn’t this a bit dramatic? How is this my life? Is he sure Andrew is actually depressed?
It was a hot day in late April as we slid into Andrew’s black sports car and turned on the AC, but I continued to melt from the inside out. My tears were visible now, streaming rapidly down my cheeks. I kept my head down. I didn’t want to see his face; I didn’t want to face any of this.
Andrew placed his hand on my thigh, gave it a couple gentle pats, and took a deep breath. “What’s wrong, Kayla? Look at me. Why are you crying? What’s going on?”
The panic attacks were one thing, but an actual depression diagnosis, coupled with actual depression medication, was all too real, all too heavy, all too much for my mind to comprehend. I lifted my head to look at the man I loved, the man I would do anything for, the man who held my heart in the palm of his hands. He was wearing a pair of ripped-up jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair had been perfectly gelled and combed, not a single strand out of place. He was always handsome and well kept. I thought back to all the Saturday afternoons when Andrew had strolled through Nordstrom Rack, searching for a new pair of shoes or a new shirt to wear as he spoke to the congregation on Sunday. After shopping, once the boys were tucked into bed, he’d give himself a fresh haircut and then hand the clippers over to me to trim the hairs on the back of his neck. Then he’d stand in his long brown robe in our walk-in closet, staring at the clothes draped from the wooden hangers. Methodically, he would pick out each piece of his outfit for the next day, all the way down to his shoes. Sometimes he would try on a few things, asking my opinion. “How does this look? Do these shoes go with this shirt? Which pair of pants do you like better?”
After making his selection, he would pull out the ironing board, heat up the iron, and slowly melt away every single crease and wrinkle. Finally, when he was finished he would crawl into bed, and I would snuggle up next to him, drape my arm across his strong body, press my cheek against his chest, and listen to his heartbeat. My head would rise and fall with his breaths; he was so beautifully alive. For a minute or two, we would just lie there together, not speaking because together was enough. Then I would pray. Every single Saturday night I would pray. I would sit up, lay one hand on his chest, and with the other hand I would run my fingers through his coarse brown hair. His whole body would relax and melt into the bed. I would say amen, we would kiss good night, and we would each roll to our side of the bed and drift off to sleep together, me and my guy, as one.
I loved Saturday nights because they were predictable. I knew what to expect, I knew what was expected of me, and I knew how much Saturday night mattered because Sunday was coming. For our family, Sunday was the most important day of the week. But we lost the days of predictability when the panic attacks started and now depression? All of these thoughts, all of these memories, flashed through my mind as we sat in the hot parking lot. I longed to go back to our usual Saturday nights, to the days when the expectations were clear and life made sense. What happened to my husband? Who is this man sitting next to me?
I hardly recognized him.
I placed my hand on Andrew’s, gripped it tight, found his tired blue eyes with my hazel ones, and whispered through my tears, “How did we end up here?”
Andrew drew back as if startled by my response. “What do you mean?” His expression spoke a hundred words. I could tell he was confused, but I needed to be honest.
“How did we end up in a psychiatrist’s office?” I asked. “How did we get here? How did you wind up with depression? The psychiatrist just looked me in the eyes and told me you have depression. How did this happen?” I was talking so quickly that I could barely get the words out. All of the stressful weeks and months leading up to this moment came bubbling to the surface. I had erupted, unable to hold back my emotions anymore. I stared down at my feet, ashamed of my feelings and wishing I could be strong for him. I wanted to look him in the eyes and tell him that everything was going to be okay. He was supposed to be the one falling apart, not me. He was the one who was sick; his was the name the doctor had written on the prescriptions.
Naturally, Andrew kept his composure as he readjusted himself in his seat. I could tell by his pause he was premeditating his words before he said them out loud.
“Kayla, it’s going to be okay. This is a good thing.” Another pause, another deep breath. I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t raise my head. I closed my eyes to block it all out, but I heard his voice, calm and soothing, say, “I’m on the low end of the spectrum. I’m going to bounce back, we are going to be all right. Kayla, please look at me.”
I mustered up the courage to lift my head and found his eyes again.
“I love you, Kayla. We’ll do this together. I’m actually relieved to have a diagnosis. They finally know what’s wrong with me. I’m going to be okay. Let’s get out of here, ’kay?”
I reluctantly nodded my head. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be hopeful, but I wasn’t.
We went to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant, a place where the chance of running into people from church was slim, a place where we could relax and enjoy our time together without interruption. Dinner was short and quiet. My mind was somewhere else, wandering through the future, worrying about how this new diagnosis was going to affect us all. What about the boys? What about the church? What about our new home? What if he didn’t get better?
On the way home, we stopped by the pharmacy to fill his prescriptions. We left with a small plastic bag containing a few green bottles of pills, each with the power to change the mind completely, each promising just as much risk as reward. They might work, or they might not. They could take away his depression and anxiety, or they could make it worse. They could cause his emotions to ramp up, or they could numb him out completely. They could release new joy, or they could cause suicidal thoughts. Despite the little bit of knowledge I had about potential side effects, these medications were a mystery. I was overwhelmed by this new journey down a new road, but even though I was a reluctant passenger, I was along for the ride. And all the while I continued asking myself, How did we end up here?
Depression wasn’t a foreign term to me. I’d studied it in college while earning my bachelor’s degree in psychology. I had friends and family members who had struggled with it, but in the back of my mind, I held major misconceptions. I thought people with depression had a flair for the dramatic. I dumbed down depression as an excuse for laziness. When a friend with postpartum depression checked out in her bedroom while her husband changed diapers and fed the baby, I thought, How could she do that to her family? I viewed depression through the lens of criticism and cynicism.
What I failed to understand is that depression is not a choice. It’s not something that a person can control by willpower any more than someone with the flu can just choose to feel better. It can happen to anyone, at any time, for any reason. Andrew did not choose depression; it chose him. His life circumstances, fatigue, and a genetic predisposition put him in a fragile state, and his mind fell victim to the darkness of depression. He needed medical attention from medical professionals, and he needed medical prescriptions.
As I watched Andrew during his most intense battles, I could tell he felt trapped by his own mind. I read somewhere that people struggling with depression feel like they are drowning while everyone else around them is breathing. It’s a suffocating darkness that isolates, confuses, and exhausts.
If he could have found a way to the surface to catch his breath, I know Andrew would have. He often made subtle comments about his condition with the undertone of feeling deeply misunderstood by family and friends. Though we were trying to help, we often felt just as confused as Andrew. The depression was changing him; it was changing all of us. As he wrestled with his depression, new behaviors and emotions came to the surface that sometimes resulted in words or actions completely out of character for Andrew, even self-sabotaging.
Living with Depressed Andrew felt like walking on eggshells much of the time. I never knew which version of Andrew was going to come out of our bedroom in the morning. Would he be happy? Sad? Angry? Tired? Would he be present with the kids, or would I have to parent another day alone?
Almost every day the answer was different. I lived in the tension of caretaker and mother, constantly torn between carrying for Andrew’s needs and tending to the needs of our three boys, ages two, four, and five at the time. Emotions were high, peace was absent, the future was foggy, the questions were never-ending, and fear was ever present. Every ounce of me wanted to be with Andrew: lying in bed with him all day, running my fingers through his hair, whispering in his ear, “Everything is going to be okay,” praying over him, going with him to doctor’s appointments. But I couldn’t. Our boys needed their mom, and I felt like a single parent. My heart began to harden.
We were lost in the wilderness with seemingly no way out. I would walk around my home and whisper under my breath in desperation, “I hate my life.” I would scroll through Instagram and see other people enjoying life together, and resentment and bitterness would grow in my heart. Why can’t we get back to normal? I’d think. I’d look at those families going on camping trips, taking their kids to Disneyland, and spending time at the beach while I was trapped in a circumstance that I couldn’t change. I’d wonder if Andrew would ever get better, and I’d cry out in prayer, “Where are you God? Why are you allowing this to happen?”
What Do We Do About Depression?
What I learned from our long, exhausting summer is that the dark cloud of depression doesn’t just block out the light for the afflicted. It also blocks out the light for those who love them the most. For a while, life loses its color as the darkness touches everything. And our experience is not a rare occurrence. Andrew was just one out of the 17.3 million estimated cases of adult depression diagnosed each year in the United States.1 As instances of mental illness, including depression and suicide, steadily increase, we need to remember that none of us are exempt. Not the friendly neighbor who always waves, the teen football star, the mom with the perfectly curated Instagram feed, or the pastor with beautiful potential and so much to live for. We are surrounded by people in pain, and the way we respond to their pain matters. We can all open our eyes a little wider and work a little harder to truly see one another. We are all capable of taking bigger steps out of our comfortable lives to love and help those who are living in pain.
A common misconception in Christian culture is that depression is somehow linked to sin and spirituality, but I came to realize that it doesn’t happen because of a lack of prayer, time spent in the Bible, or faith. I now know that depression is a real physical illness that needs to be treated with professional help, tender care, empathy, and compassion. One of the most painful things a follower of Jesus can do is openly criticize the faith of a person who is in the darkness of depression. Even with the best intentions, if we aren’t careful with our words, we could heap more shame and sorrow upon our friends who are mentally ill.
It’s my hope and prayer that we will change the conversation and break the stigma, that we will find new ways to replace the old approaches to mental illness. There are four powerful words my mother-in-law, Carol, shared in a message to our church that I believe can help us see another person’s pain more clearly. These words have the ability to change our hearts and stop us from thinking or saying something critical and potentially untrue. These are the words she shared: I have no idea.2
I have no idea about their story or history.
I have no idea what burdens they are carrying.
I have no idea what it’s like to live with what they are living with.
I have no idea what’s going on inside their mind.
I have no idea about their mental illness.
I have no idea.
I find that to be incredibly convicting. We have no idea what it’s like to walk in anyone else’s shoes but our own. And this is especially true when it comes to mental health issues. I believe there are more effective ways we can walk alongside and support someone who is suffering.
LISTEN WITHOUT JUDGMENT
Oftentimes people battling depression are confused about their own emotions. If we create space for them to process their emotions out loud, it may actually help minimize their pain and provide clarity. It can also open the door for us to respond to their thoughts and feelings with empathy instead of advice. By listening and responding with words like, “I hear you, and I am so sorry for your pain” or “It must be so hard to feel the way you feel” or “Please know I’m here for you no matter what; we will get through this together,” we create space for healing to begin. When we realize our job isn’t to fix the depression, we can begin to sit with those we love in their pain.
ENGAGE, DON’T IGNORE
Battling depression often leads to isolation because normal, everyday things like going to the grocery store, going to work, spending time with friends, and even getting out of bed can feel overwhelming and unbearable. Unlike normal fatigue, depression is an exhaustion that does not go away—no matter how much caffeine is consumed, how much sleep is had, or how many vitamins are swallowed. The best thing we can do for our loved ones struggling with depression is to keep engaging them. They may not answer our phone calls, respond to our text messages, or open the door when we stop by, but we can’t give up. If we give up, it may lead them to give up too.
Instead we can keep showing up; we can keep showing them that there is nothing they can do to push us away. If they don’t answer the phone, we can leave them encouraging voicemails; if they don’t answer the door, we can leave special gifts or thoughtful notes on their doorsteps. We can continue to show up because their lives are worth fighting for.
ENCOURAGE SELF-CARE
People who are walking through the darkness of depression may have lost the desire or ability to care for themselves. As a way to encourage self-care, we can sit beside them and help create a list of things that bring them joy. It doesn’t have to be complicated; self-care can be as simple as going for a walk, cooking a yummy meal, riding a bike around the block, watching a show on Netflix, or reading a good book. Self-care may even be something we can do together with our loved ones until they’re strong enough to do it on their own.
PRAY
One of the most important things we can do for someone with depression is pray—and do it in a way that doesn’t minimize our loved ones’ pain but instead reminds them that they are not alone. We can pray with them and for them just like we would pray for a friend battling cancer. If they refuse to pray together, we can pray from a distance, fighting and interceding for our loved ones who may be too run-down to fight for themselves. Prayer may not always lead to miraculous healing; the healing isn’t up to us. Sometimes God sends supernatural miracles, and sometimes he simply says no or wait. Maybe in the wilderness of waiting for prayers to be answered we’ll be reminded that true faith isn’t about being dazzled by miracles. True faith is about being faithful—no matter the outcome.
The Wilderness
Depression isn’t new; throughout history we see stories of real people plagued with real seasons of depression. I find comfort in the fact that the heroes of our faith had their own dark moments of overwhelming pain. Pain that drove them to the isolation of the wilderness and to the edge of their mortality. Pain that oftentimes came after a mountaintop moment of faith.
As Jesus stepped away from his baptism and into the wilderness, I wonder what thoughts were swirling in his mind. He was fully God, yet fully human, and in his humanity he was filled with real thoughts, real emotions, a real beating heart—fully alive. He knew the Spirit was leading him to the wilderness to be tested, but I often wonder how he felt. Was he afraid, or was he fearless? Was he filled with joy, or was he depressed? Was he anxious or peaceful? No matter his mental state, he remained obedient. He allowed the Father, through the Spirit, to lead him into the wild unknown (Matt. 4:1).
Perhaps Jesus knew this would be part of the plan all along. Genesis 22 reveals that God tested Abraham by asking him to offer his son as a sacrifice. Abraham, in faith, remained obedient to God, and in the final hour God spared his son’s life. Job 1:6 explains that God allowed Satan to test Job, a man of integrity and deep reverence for God. Satan took everything away from Job: his wealth, his health, his family, and his friends, until he was left alone in the dirt in deep physical, emotional, and spiritual pain. But Job remained faithful to God, and at the very end of Job’s story, we see God restore his life and double his fortune.
Both Abraham and Job had every reason to turn and walk away from their faith. But they didn’t. Instead they trusted God—even in the face of death, even when it seemed ludicrous in the eyes of the world. They said yes to him when they could have said no. They kept a tight grip on their faith when it would have been easy to give up or reach out for something or someone else to save them.
Whether the pain we are facing today is physical or mental, or both, we can choose to keep putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that even in our deepest pain, God is still near. I will never fully understand why God allows the darkness of depression to plague minds. I’ll never fully grasp why some people are healed and others aren’t. But what I do understand is that even if the darkness lasts a lifetime, we have all been promised a place in heaven where freedom and healing are forever. And maybe our dark days here will feel small and insignificant as we stand in the light of eternity. In the meantime, in the wilderness of the world, where the pain is real and deep, we can continue to walk in faith. We can ask God to teach us how to embrace and live with the pain, and we can press on through every trial knowing the finish line is near.