One of the most painful aspects of living with Anxiety and Depression is how alone you can feel when the symptoms strike.
Statistics remind us that these mood disorders are incredibly common. Millions of people live with them every day. Intellectually, we know we are not alone.
But mental illness rarely listens to statistics.
When Anxiety or Depression takes hold, it becomes easy to retreat into the most vulnerable corners of your mind and believe that this burden is yours—and yours alone—to carry.
Sometimes, fortunately, that isn’t true.
You may be with someone who understands what you’re experiencing and can gently help you work through it. Or perhaps you have someone on standby—a trusted friend who has told you, “Call me whenever you need to.”
I am fortunate to have several people like that in my life, though I’ll freely admit I don’t reach out to them as often as I should. There are also people I feel comfortable approaching and saying, “Can I borrow you for ten or fifteen minutes? I could really use some help.”
That kind of support is a gift.
But there is another kind of loneliness that isn’t talked about as often. It’s the loneliness of being surrounded by people who seem determined not to engage with you because they’re afraid. Perhaps they think people with mental illnesses are fragile—that an ordinary conversation might somehow make us fall apart. Perhaps they’re afraid we’ll say the “A” or “D” words, even though those same people have no trouble talking about bad backs, high blood pressure, or surgeries. Or maybe they simply don’t know what to say.
Whatever the reason, silence can be its own form of isolation.
Because I’ve been open about my struggles, I’ve had countless conversations with people about Anxiety, Depression, and loneliness.
And I know I’m fortunate. Most of the people in my life know about my ongoing relationship with Anxiety and my less frequent encounters with Depression. More importantly, they don’t mistake those struggles for my identity. They’re happy to talk with me about gardening, politics, music, tenant advocacy, or mental health—just as I’m happy to hear about their lives and whatever challenges they’re facing.
Still, even with that support, I sometimes feel alone. Part of that is simply the nature of these illnesses. When the symptoms arrive, loneliness often tags along.
But I’ve also experienced a different kind of loneliness—the loneliness of being pushed to the margins.
I remember sitting with four people whom I considered a supportive group. Everyone was sharing frustrations from their day, so I felt comfortable mentioning that I’d had an anxious start to my morning.
One person looked at me and said, “Oh, so we’re going to dredge up AA and childhood issues, huh?”
The table fell silent for a few awkward seconds before everyone moved on to a more “acceptable” topic of conversation.
To this day, I have no idea what the comment about AA was supposed to mean.
What I do know is how it made me feel. Dismissed. Embarrassed. Put back in my place.
I stopped talking for several minutes. I wish I’d had the perfect comeback—or at least the confidence to say, “That wasn’t a fair thing to say.” Instead, I sat quietly, replaying the moment in my head and giving that comment far more power than it deserved.
I can’t change what happened, and I don’t spend much time wishing I could.
What I can do is recognize that I no longer feel comfortable around that person. Sometimes that’s simply the honest consequence of how we treat one another.
So let me end on something more hopeful.
The world can be competitive, impatient, and, at times, unnecessarily harsh.
But every one of us has the opportunity to make it a little gentler. As I’ve written before, we can choose humility over ego. Kindness over indifference. Curiosity over judgment. We can be generous—with our time, our attention, our encouragement, and yes, even with dark chocolate.
Most importantly, we can let people know they don’t have to carry their burdens alone. Empathy goes a remarkably long way. A thoughtful question. A patient conversation. A willingness to sit with someone instead of avoiding them.
These are small acts. But small acts often have enormous consequences.
You may never know when your kindness helped someone. You may never know when your empathy reminded someone that they weren’t alone.
And sometimes, that’s one of the greatest gifts we can give another person.
