I hate to admit that I’ve been a little bit depressed. 

Like any depression, it’s nothing big—just a few major changes in my life, a few endings (which I’ve always struggled with), and a few potholes along the road. Nothing special. But I’ve found myself walking through my days, half the time, through the foggy lens of grief. I burst into sobs randomly when my mind clears up and there’s nothing to focus on or listen to (usually in the tube, when it’s too loud to even listen to music).

There was probably a time, and perhaps it is still a time, when being depressed is a bit fashionable and shows that you’re awake to the direness of the existential threats to this earth. But at my age (30), I have to admit I’m also a tad embarrassed. I always thought 30-year-old women ought to be knee-deep in demanding careers and shitty managers or literally shitty toddlers, not with enough time on their hands to look so hard at their navels that they notice the gaping hole in their souls. But I guess, as I might discuss in full in the future, none of the rulebooks of what it used to mean to be at a certain phase of life or age seem to apply anymore. Especially when you’re the generational anomaly that is the peak millennial.

Why am I writing this? Perhaps, with the small hope that it might amuse you or make you laugh, or make you feel less alone. And also because, I first began to write because of the feeling it gave me. Writing transformed me, it’s always been a sort of unburdening. I feel lighter each time.