What I Needed Most

Confessions from a Season of High-Functioning Depression

I’ve lived with depression for a long time.

This isn’t a recent discovery. I’ve written about it before and I’ve wrestled with it for years. In many ways, it became significantly more difficult after the birth of my daughter in 2017, when I struggled tremendously with postpartum depression.

So, this isn’t a story about finally realizing that depression exists in my life. It’s a reflection on something else. Even when you’ve lived with depression for years, it’s possible to miss the severity of a depressive episode while you’re in it.

At least it was for me.

Partly because I’m what is clinically referred to as a high-functioning depressive. Depression has never completely stopped me from showing up. I’ve continued to work, care for my family, serve in ministry, meet obligations, and do what needed to be done. And because I was still functioning, it was easy to assume I was managing.

Looking back now, I can see that last year was probably one of the deepest depressive seasons I’ve ever experienced. My grandmother became seriously ill in January and passed away in June. Before that, I had spent significant time caring for my mother. At the same time, I was navigating my own health challenges, marriage, parenting, financial uncertainty, ministry responsibilities, and the countless demands that come with simply being needed by people.

I kept going because I felt like I had to. People needed me. There were responsibilities that couldn’t simply be set aside. And because I continued showing up, I didn’t fully see just how much I was carrying. What I couldn’t discern at the time was that functioning and flourishing are not the same thing.

It has taken distance from that season for me to see more clearly just how much of what I was experiencing was depression and how much of what I needed had very little to do with becoming more productive.

Photo by Danilo Batista on Unsplash

The Depression I Didn’t Fully Recognize

At one point last year, I remember trying to dance around the reality of what was happening. I wasn’t denying that I had a history of depression. I knew that. But I found myself questioning whether what I was experiencing really qualified as depression.

My therapist listened patiently and finally said, “Yes, Portia. This is depression.”

Still, I wasn’t entirely convinced.

So he pulled out the DSM-5 and began walking me through the diagnostic criteria. One by one, we worked through the questions together. By the time we finished, the evidence was difficult to ignore.

“Portia,” he said, “you really are dealing with clinical depression.”

Looking back, I realize part of my resistance came from the fact that I was still functioning. I was still getting things done. I was still caring for people. I was still handling responsibilities, albeit not optimally, but I was managing to keep all the plates somewhat spinning. From the outside, it looked like I was doing okay-ish. What people couldn’t see was how much energy it was taking just to keep things from falling apart.

And what I failed to understand at the time is that depression doesn’t always prevent you from functioning. Sometimes it simply makes functioning feel like you’re dragging a thousand pounds behind you everywhere you go. And because I was still moving, I didn’t fully grasp how heavy the weight had become.

What I Needed Most

Looking back, I can see that much of what enabled me to keep going was compartmentalization. I learned how to set things aside long enough to meet the next need, solve the next problem, care for the next person, or make it through the next day.

That’s why one of the most painful pieces of advice I received during that season was the suggestion that I needed to learn how to compartmentalize better.

The words were well-intended, but they landed hard. Not because compartmentalization was foreign to me, but because it was already the strategy I was using to survive. In fact, I had become so skilled at it that many people had no idea how much I was carrying. The issue wasn’t that I needed another coping strategy. The issue was that I had been carrying too much for too long.

What I needed wasn’t better compartmentalization. I had already become quite skilled at setting my own needs aside long enough to meet the next obligation. What I needed was a pause. I needed room to breathe and space to grieve. I needed time to care for myself instead of constantly functioning for everyone else. And perhaps most of all, I needed people who were willing to help carry the weight rather than simply offering suggestions for how I might carry it more effectively.

As I’ve begun to emerge from that fog, I’ve realized something else. Many of us genuinely want to help people who are suffering, but we often default to advice because advice feels manageable. Advice allows us to remain on the outside of someone else’s pain. We can offer a solution and move on. Entering into someone’s suffering is far more costly. It requires time, patience, emotional energy, and often a willingness to sit with problems we cannot solve. Yet that is frequently what suffering people need most.

The Difference Between a Load and a Burden

One of the things I love about Galatians 6 is that Paul gives two commands that seem contradictory at first glance. In Galatians 6:2, he tells believers to bear one another’s burdens. Yet in Galatians 6:5, he says that each person must carry his own load.

It is important that we understand the distinction Paul is making here.

A load is something a person is responsible for carrying. It belongs to them. It may not always be easy, but it is theirs to steward. A burden, however, is something heavier. It is a crushing weight that exceeds what one person can reasonably carry alone.

Understanding that distinction has helped me think differently about both suffering and community. Loving people well means recognizing when someone is carrying a burden rather than merely a load. It means understanding that accountability and compassion are not enemies. We don’t remove people’s responsibility to carry what is theirs to carry. At the same time, we should not leave them alone beneath a weight that is crushing them. Christian love compels us to step closer, not farther away.

I think that’s one of the reasons this passage resonates so deeply with me now. Looking back, there were responsibilities in my life that were mine to carry. They were my load. But there were also seasons when the cumulative weight of grief, caregiving, health struggles, financial concerns, and emotional exhaustion became a burden. And burdens, by definition, are not meant to be carried alone.

The Ministry of Staying

I think one of the great temptations when people suffer is to distance ourselves from their pain. Sometimes it is because we don’t know what to say. Sometimes it is because we feel helpless. Sometimes it is because their suffering asks more of us than we feel prepared to give. And sometimes, if we’re honest, someone else’s pain simply feels overwhelming.

But suffering people do not need us to have all the answers. More often than not, they need us to remain present. They need someone who will listen without rushing to fix the problem, pray without offering clichés, check in long after the initial crisis has passed, and continue showing up when the situation becomes inconvenient or uncomfortable. They need people willing to help carry what has become too heavy for one person alone.

If you have people in your life who seem to be holding everything together, pay attention. The people who are suffering the most are not always the ones who appear to be falling apart. Sometimes they’re the ones still showing up, still serving, still caring for everyone else, and still meeting responsibilities despite the weight they’re carrying.

Don’t assume someone is okay simply because they continue moving forward. And don’t be so quick to tell them what they need to do. Instead, ask how you can help. Ask what they’re carrying. Ask whether the weight has become too much. You may discover that what appears to be strength is actually exhaustion and that what looks like resilience is someone doing everything they can to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes the most Christlike thing we can do is not offer another solution. Sometimes it’s simply refusing to walk away when the burden becomes heavy.

Grace and peace, my friends! 💕

P.S. — I’ll be at TGCW next week and would love to meet some of you! I’m incredibly grateful for the encouragement I’ve received from so many of you and would love to say “hi” and give you a hug! Feel free to inbox me or connect with me on my social media channels.