The Trouble With Letting Go

“Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.” — Madeleine L’Engle

Depression. I’ve carried it for as long as I can remember, sometimes like a storm, sometimes like a shadow, but always there. And lately, I’ve been sitting with a strange thought: part of me doesn’t want to stop being depressed.

I know how that sounds. Depression is heavy. It bleaches the color out of life, dulls every joy, and makes even small tasks feel like climbing a mountain. It’s not glamorous or poetic, it’s exhausting. And yet, there’s a corner of my mind that clings to it.

I think it’s because depression is familiar. I know its texture, its rhythm. I know what days in depression look like, how they begin, how they end. It’s like an old, wool blanket, scratchy, but mine. In its weight, there’s predictability. In its grayness, there’s no pressure to shine.

Depression also lowers the stakes. When I’m here, no one expects much of me and I don’t expect much of myself. I can drop the performance, let go of ambition, and exist without the constant strain of “doing better.” There’s a kind of relief in that. And if I’m being honest, it shields me from disappointment. You can’t really fail if you’ve already lowered the bar to the floor.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve built an identity around it. I’ve lived with depression for so long that it feels like a piece of me. Who would I be without it? What if I try to get better and fail? What if the world beyond it is even more painful? The uncertainty can feel scarier than the sadness I already know how to navigate.

And maybe that’s the real reason it’s so easy to stay here: change takes energy, and depression drains it. The thought of clawing my way out feels impossible some days. So I curl up inside it, not because it’s warm, but because it’s known.

But here’s the thing I’ve learned, comfort and healing are not the same thing. Familiarity can trick you into thinking you’re safe, when really you’re just stuck.

For me, I’ve found that the easiest way to inch out of that dark corner isn’t through massive life overhauls. It’s through creating. Photography, in particular, has been my way of letting light in literally and figuratively. When I’m behind the camera, I’m forced to notice things depression tells me aren’t worth seeing. I catch the way the light hits a coffee cup, or how shadows stretch across a street. I document moments I’d otherwise ignore, and in doing that, I start to feel them again.

What I’ve learned is this: creativity doesn’t always cure the depression, but it can loosen its grip. Making something, anything, is a rebellion against the numbness. It’s proof that I’m still here, still capable of seeing and shaping the world, even on days I feel invisible.

“Depression is being colorblind and constantly told how colorful the world is.” — Atticus

So if you’re sitting in that same strange comfort I know so well, maybe don’t start with “getting better.” Start with making something. Write a messy sentence. Take a blurry photo. Record a voice memo. Create badly if you have to. The point isn’t to make great art, it’s to remind yourself you’re alive enough to make anything at all.

Because every time you create, you’re pulling back that wool blanket, even just an inch, and letting in a little more light.

Keep moving,

Matthew James Price
paradisevalleymedia.com
@mjpmontana