Breaking news! We’re quickly approaching that time of the year where the temperature drops low enough for me to turn my AC off at night. This means summer is almost at an end. I happen to be a summer baby ☀️. I was born shortly after the Summer Solstice, a time of bright sun, warm weather, long days and everyone being outside and having fun.

I hate it. I hate the summertime.

Here’s a little fun fact about me: I get Seasonal Affective Disorder (also known as S.A.D.) in the summertime. Most people associate S.A.D. with the wintertime, when the sun sets absurdly early and we’re forced to spend the majority of the day in darkness, craving vitamin D and the time we used to spend with our friends before the air gets so cold it hurts your face just to open your front door. But me, I look forward to the winter, because it means my season of “shoulds” is in the rearview mirror.

Summer stresses me out, it always has. As a kid, summers were especially hard for my family, it was a time when my mother–a teacher–would be out of work and therefore out of an income, so funds and food were particularly lean in the summer months. As an adult, I still deal with the trauma/memories of those experiences, but now added to that is an intense pressure to make my summers worthwhile. In the age of social media (and honestly long before), I feel a powerful obligation to be doing what everyone else does.

I should be wearing tank tops and short shorts and sundresses.

I should be at music festivals.

I should be outside with my friends.

I should be at cookouts.

I should be doing things!!

But a lot of these summer traditions make me uncomfortable. I’m still learning body positivity so exposing my skin makes me feel self-conscious. I get nervous around crowds and I don’t like loud music (or spending money) so festivals are a no-no. When my friends are busy or equally broke and I’m stuck in the house alone, I start to feel bad that I’m not out and about gallivanting for the ‘Gram. I don’t like cooking, so I dread invites to the function where I’m expected to bring a dish. I get so stressed out!

But why?

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Happy Labor Day, comrades!

A few years back, there was a viral “I Don’t Dream of Labor” movement happening online. People (particularly Millennials and Gen Z) were posting videos on TikTok, IG, and YouTube about how there’s no such thing as a “dream job” and that prioritizing climbing the corporate ladder and achievement under the system of capitalism was fruitless. We as a people should be prioritizing ourselves and our personal growth and goals.

I used to relate to this sentiment (before it went viral, haha). I’ve echoed Miryam Hasnaa’s personal definition of success: being able to take naps whenever I want! And I’ve had a very successful career, napwise and corporate-wise, if I say so myself. I’ve worked for magazines, newspapers, websites, and a very popular streaming service. I’ve traveled the country and world. I’ve made a lot of money for myself and my family. I’ve met some amazing people and I’d like to think my work has had a positive impact on others.

But spending a decade as an overachiever climbing the corporate ladder was exhausting physically, mentally, and financially. And the idea of abandoning my career and traveling the world as an internet influencer was looking really tempting.

I’ve been out of the traditional workforce (by choice) for about 6 months now. And I’ve realized that while I’m not quite as ambitious as I used to be and I’m no longer that interested in a high level career and I’m actually enjoying no longer being in the rat race, I do, in fact, have a dream job. I believe there are some basic things that every job should have and I don’t know if it’s even possible (that’s what makes it a dream).

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Wow! Day 2 and I already wanna stop, haha! I won’t, though.

I wanted this writing challenge to go perfectly. Not only because anxiety and perfectionism go hand-in-hand, but also because journaling is truly my favorite thing to do and I wanted to show I could do it well. Plus, journaling is one of the best mental wellness tools.

I’m someone who prides herself on doing “the work.” Meaning, the work to improve myself. I love therapy, I’m my therapist’s favorite patient (although I’m not sure if that’s a good thing now that I think about it…). I’m an avid journaler (obviously). I’m constantly thinking about how to be a better, more healed human being. I listen to podcasts about psychology and being my “highest self.” I go to church and I only follow those Instagram accounts that give you the little daily motivation quotes. I read self-help books, I meditate, I’m learning about chakras and tarot and ayurveda. I’m the friend most likely to ask you, “How does that make you feel?”

But sometimes, the work is a lot of well,…work! And it doesn’t make me feel good. In fact (surprise!) constantly working on myself sometimes makes me feel bad.

All work and no play makes life suck. Don’t wait til you get “healed” to be happy.

I learned in therapy that a big source of my depression is shame and guilt. I feel guilty for not being productive, for not doing “the work,” and ashamed for not being my most evolved, perfect self. I always thought the opposite of “shame” was “pride” or “success,” so, I attempted to do things that would make me proud of myself (or would make others proud of me, honestly). I would actually try to work harder to get out of my mental slumps: More podcasts, more books, more journaling, more healing.

But of course, when you’re depressed, working on anything is impossible, even working on yourself. Sometimes, I don’t even have the energy to wash my own ass. And the failure to get stuff done and the failure to heal myself only made me feel more ashamed. And that of course made me more depressed.

Some of the best advice I received this year during my down days was to “spend less time trying to understand my childhood trauma’s and more time doing the things that actually make me happy.”

Now, I think the most annoying, unhelpful, condescending thing someone can say to someone with depression is “Have you tried just being happy?” No shit. But constantly focusing on my depression and trying to solve it was actually hurting me. And my friend could see it. He spent a lot of time with me during my lowest days and while he saw me doing all the “right” things to feel better, he didn’t see me doing things that actually made me feel better.

In fact, I was avoiding the things that actually put a smile on my face, because I felt I didn’t deserve to do them if I wasn’t doing the more “important” work of healing all the things that are wrong with me and my brain.

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Today’s journal entry + art by Rayo & Honey

Every room in the house is a mess.

I’ve been trying to clean my home for 5 months. Each time I start to get organized, something goes wrong. Between the stress of leaving my job, moving back home, losing a friend, losing two aunts, getting sick, losing my home (temporarily), family drama, boy drama, getting sick again and then one more time just for fun… it’s been a pretty shitty spring and summer, to put it lightly.

My mind is a lot like my house right now. Everything is in disarray and I don’t know where to start putting it back together. Should I move my body and go back to the gym? Well, I’ll need gym clothes for that so I should do laundry. If I have time to clear out your closet, I should be spending it looking for a job. I should feel bad about being unemployed. I should feel bad about letting my feeling bad cause me to distance myself from my friends. I should feel bad about gaining weight while self isolating. I should go to the gym. Well, if I’m going to do that, I need to do laundry…

​​On and on the cycle of thought goes and nothing gets done and it seems simpler to just crawl back into the bed I’ve been metaphorically chained to and let the rhetorical and literal mess continue to pile up and drown me.

…That’s depression for ya.

Depression is so fucking dumb.

Like, it is the dumbest, most stupidest thing in the entire world. And I can say that as a card carrying, prescription popping, DSM-diagnosed person with moderate to severe clinical depression (and a sprinkle of anxiety and PTSD thrown in for a little razzle dazzle).

It’s more than just feeling “sad.” It’s feeling… incapable. Of anything. Depression has a powerful yet subtle little voice that tells you “don’t” repeatedly. Don’t get up. Don’t bother. Don’t move. Don’t try. Don’t annoy anyone with your emotions. Don’t do anything. And in some severe cases, don’t live.

Even things that will make you happy or feel good or accomplished, depression whispers, “Now why would you do a thing like that? Wouldn’t it be better if you just… didn’t?” What if you didn’t answer the phone when your mom is calling even though you miss her? What if you didn’t journal even though you and your therapist know it will help you feel better? What if you didn’t go to dance class and see all your friends? What if you didn’t reply to those emails of employment opportunities? What if you just don’t bother??!

Depression tells you you don’t deserve anything. That people and circumstances–and by proxy, you!–will be better off if you just didn’t get in the way. So, you do get out of the way. You bury yourself under a cloud of sadness and despair. And when that fog finally lifts, you can see all the life you neglected and all the people who’ve been waiting for you on the other side. And sometimes, that’s enough to make you feel so ashamed and wanna crawl back under the comfort of the covers and let the fog take over again.

But each time you emerge, you gotta just let yourself start over. If my depression has taught me anything, it’s how to start over.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. The courage to change the things I can. And the wisdom to know the difference.”

Read more at HuffPost.com