On paper, I had the perfect life. A steady job, a college degree, a close-knit group of friends. But what people didn’t see was the way I struggled to get out of bed in the morning. The way 

i sat in my car after work, staring at the dashboard, trying to convince myself to go inside.

The way I felt nothing at all.

Depression didn’t hit me all at once. It crept in slowly, like a fog, and 

I didn’t notice until I was completely lost. One missed text. One canceled plan. One more night of staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

I started writing because I didn’t know what else to do. At first, the pages were filled with nothing but anger—at myself, at the world, at the people who told me to “just be positive.”

Then, one night, I wrote something different:

"I don’t want to die. I just don’t know how to keep living like this."

Seeing those words on paper was the wake-up call I needed. I reached out to a therapist, started medication, and slowly, things got better.

Not perfect. Not easy. But better.

Some days, I still struggle. But at least now, I  know I'm not fighting alone.

                                -Peyton