I’ve been disappearing a bit lately. Cancelled plans. Unanswered texts. Social invites ignored, or met with a vague “yeah, maybe.” If you’ve noticed I’ve been distant, you’re right—and I want to be honest about why.
I’m tired. Not just “long day at work” tired. Not “I didn’t sleep well last night” tired. I mean soul-deep, bone-heavy exhaustion. The kind that settles into your body and brain and refuses to leave. It’s the kind of tired that makes even the smallest task feel like a marathon.
That’s what depression has been doing to me.
It’s not always dramatic. I’m not crying on the floor every day. There’s no tragic soundtrack playing in the background. It’s more like a constant weight pressing down, making everything harder. Even the things I enjoy start to feel like chores. Even people I love feel hard to be around—not because I don’t want to see them, but because I don’t have the energy to be the version of me they know.
And then there’s the medication. The stuff that’s supposed to help manage the depression. It does help, in some ways—but it also leaves me in this weird, numb fog. I’m drowsy most of the time. My motivation is shot. I go through the motions of daily life with what little energy I have, and by the time I’m done, I’ve got nothing left in the tank. Nothing for socialising, nothing for fun, and certainly nothing for small talk over drinks in a loud bar.
What’s worse is that I’ve been faking it. I’ve been trying to seem “fine.” I say I’m up for things when I know I’ll cancel. I act upbeat in conversations when I’m silently counting down the minutes until I can lie down again. I put on the show because I don’t want to let people down. But the act is exhausting. Sometimes worse than the depression itself.
So here’s the truth: I’m not fine. I’m struggling. And I’m tired of pretending otherwise.
That said, I am trying. I’m not sitting still in this. I’ve been having regular wellbeing sessions with a counsellor, and they’ve helped me start to acknowledge what I’ve actually been through over the last 18 months. And believe me—it’s been a lot. Things I pushed down or powered through because I had to… I’m finally giving those things the attention they deserve. It’s hard work, but it’s helping me breathe again.
One of the few places where I don’t have to pretend—where I feel most like myself—is on the radio. Presenting is my refuge from the darkness. It’s the one place where, even when I’m low, I can still find some light. When the mic goes live, something shifts. I get to step outside the fog, even for just a couple of hours, and connect with people in a way that doesn’t demand anything from me other than authenticity. It’s not an escape—it’s a lifeline.
If you’re reading this and wondering what you can do—thank you. That alone means a lot. Because here’s the thing: I don’t need fixing. I’m not looking for a motivational speech or a list of things I “should” try. Depression doesn’t get scared off by yoga and a smoothie. (Trust me, I’ve tried.)
What does help?
- Patience. If I go quiet, don’t assume I’m angry or uninterested. I might just not have the energy to talk that day. Check in, but don’t pressure me to respond right away. A simple “thinking of you” message with no expectations attached can mean everything.
- Understanding. If I cancel plans, don’t take it personally. I’m not avoiding you, I’m just not up for the world right now. Please don’t guilt-trip me or make me feel worse. I already feel bad enough about letting people down.
- Low-pressure company. Sometimes I do want to see someone, but I don’t have the strength for a full-on social event. Offer to come round and sit in silence with me. Watch a film. Bring snacks. We don’t even have to talk much—just being near someone who gets it can help more than you realise.
- Keep inviting me. Even if I say no ten times in a row, keep asking. Not because I’ll always be able to say yes, but because knowing I’m still included, still thought of, still welcome, means the world.
- Ask me how I really am—and be ready for the honest answer. Sometimes I might say “I’m tired” or “just low,” and that’s me telling you I’m not okay. You don’t need to fix it. Just hearing “I’m sorry you’re going through this, I’m here” is enough.
I know I’m not easy to reach right now. I know I might seem distant or even disinterested. But I’m still here. I still care. I’m just navigating something heavy—and it’s taking up most of my energy.
Please don’t give up on me. I’m not giving up either. I’m just moving slower right now. Taking smaller steps. Choosing rest over guilt. Quiet over chaos.
And thanks to the right support, some deeply-needed honesty, and the sanctuary of that red ‘on-air’ light, I’m starting to believe that this fog won’t last forever.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly. That’s more kindness than you know.