I finally said “I’m depressed” instead of “I’m just stressed,” and I stopped abandoning myself with language

Dear Delyara, The softer words had become a shield. Stressed. Tired. Flat. Burned out. A lot going on. All true in fragments. None true enough. I had become very good at naming my own suffering in ways that still let me sound fundamentally manageable. It took me a long time to admit that this wasn’t humility. It was fear. Fear of what the real word would mean. Fear of being that person. Fear that once I named it fully, I would have to stop pretending it was temporary or small or normal for women and mothers and tired wives and busy people. Then I said it. Depressed. The room changed. The help changed. I changed. Because naming pain accurately is not indulgence. It is the first decent thing I had done for my own mind in months.