I disappeared for a while.

Not dramatically. Not with an announcement. Not with a carefully crafted goodbye.

I simply stopped showing up.

Depression is strange that way. It doesn’t always look like tears or crisis. Sometimes it looks like unopened notebooks, abandoned drafts, and a woman who once had something to say convincing herself that nobody wants to hear it.

For months, I told myself I was taking a break. That I was resting. That I was focusing on other things. Some of that was true.

Some of it wasn’t.

There is a difference between healing and hiding, though the two can look remarkably similar from the outside.

Healing is intentional. It asks something of us. It requires honesty, discomfort, and eventually, participation in our own lives.

Hiding is different. It disguises itself as healing. It whispers that we’re resting, protecting our peace, taking the time we need. And sometimes we are.

But sometimes it’s self-deceptive comfort. A place that feels safe because nothing is being asked of us there. We convince ourselves we’re healing when we’re really avoiding. We tell ourselves we’ll come back when we feel ready.

The problem is that hiding never actually gives us what it promises. No matter how much we want it to be comfort, it isn’t. It doesn’t restore us. It doesn’t move us forward. It simply keeps us still.

And before we know it, tomorrow has become months.

Somewhere along the way, I started measuring my worth by my productivity. If I wasn’t creating, accomplishing, earning, fixing, organizing, or helping, then I felt as though I was failing. Depression turned even the smallest tasks into uphill climbs, but without the certainty of a beautiful view from the top. I continued holding myself to the standards of a person who wasn’t struggling.

It’s a cruel thing, expecting survival and performance at the same time.

I felt guilty for resting.

I felt guilty for not writing.

I felt guilty for not being the version of myself I remembered.

What I know is that healing is rarely productive in the way our culture likes to celebrate. There are no certificates for getting out of bed when everything feels heavy. No applause for surviving a season that nobody else can see.

My healing looks unimpressive.

Sometimes it looks like it’s taking longer than I thought it would.

Sometimes it looks like silence.

And sometimes, when the silence has served its purpose, it looks like returning.

Not because you’re fully healed.

Not because you’ve figured everything out.

Not because you’ve become a better version of yourself.

But because you’re ready to stop hiding.

The thing about a wild card is that she even surprises herself sometimes.

So here I am.

A little different.

A little worn.

Still paying attention.

Still taking notes.

Always with something to say.

— Vera Luminous