In 2010, I was diagnosed with depression. Depression is a terrible illness. Once it becomes severe, it takes everything from you. It takes away your energy, your sense of self. It takes away hope. In the worst cases, it leads to death — like it almost did with me. Depression is not something you can ignore or overcome just by being strong or mature enough. You can’t will it away. No one chooses depression, just like no one chooses cancer.
Depression is an illness I did not choose. It’s not a sign of weakness or failure. I tried to seek help with the strength I had at the time. I did what I could with what I had. I wasn’t lazy or careless when I didn’t get the support I needed. The failures in my treatment weren’t unique to me — they’re part of a broader pattern that many people with mental health struggles face. I reached out for help but was met with a system limited by underfunding and a lack of understanding of what depression truly is.
I don’t blame my classmates or teachers for my illness. My depression wasn’t anyone’s fault. That’s not what this is about. Depression is complicated. Maybe it had something to do with genetics. Maybe it came from things I had experienced earlier in life.
But the fact that it became so severe during my studies wasn’t a coincidence. It didn’t happen in a vacuum. The environment I was in — the exclusions, the constant uncertainty about where I stood in the group, the racism — made everything worse. My depression was shaped by a hostile, invalidating space that constantly undermined my sense of safety, worth, and belonging.
The systematic exclusion and silence I faced during my studies was a chronic stressor — meaning that over time, it chipped away at my self-worth. That is psychologically devastating. I experienced subtle demeaning comments and inconsistent behavior from people around me. That kept my nervous system in a state of constant alertness, never knowing if I was going to be treated well or humiliated. It was exhausting. I started doubting myself. I didn’t know what was safe or who was safe to me. That’s a recipe for depression: constant uncertainty without support.
I tried to hold onto connection, learning, creativity and my future. I was also dealing with pain from the past, including bullying and shame. But instead of finding support, I was met with silence, suspicion, and eventually, cruelty. This is what pushed me down and kept me down — not weakness, not sensitivity, not being somehow inherently wrong or broken, but a structurally violent environment that gave me no safe place to exist as my full self.
I was in a group where racism, microaggressions, and social exclusion weren’t isolated events — they were ongoing. It eroded my sense of self. Our brains are wired to seek connection, recognition, and belonging. When the environment we’re in punishes us for existing as who we are, that’s not neutral — that’s traumatic.
Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I started feeling worse and worse, day by day. My mental health broke down in that environment. And once it happened, it became yet another reason for my classmates and teachers to treat me as “other.”