For so long, I’ve carried my depression alone. Not because I wanted to—at least, not consciously—but because it became my default. I learned to suppress my feelings, to keep moving forward no matter what, to trudge through the weight of my emotions instead of sharing them. And in doing so, I pushed people away, or at best, kept them at arm’s length. Now, on the other side of that, I find myself surrounded by people yet still feeling deeply alone.
I don’t want to be alone in this anymore. And I don’t want others to feel it either.
But knowing what I want and being able to ask for it are two very different things. I have spent years learning to listen to my own desires, to name them, to practice asking. And still, when it comes to something as simple—but as terrifying—as saying, “Hey, I need support,” I freeze. I stall. I convince myself I’ll be a burden.
Lately, quitting drinking has made this even more apparent. Drinking gave me a way to connect, or at least a way to lower the barrier enough to feel like I was connecting. Without it, I feel exposed. Raw. And yet, I know going back isn’t the answer. I don’t want a false sense of intimacy; I want something real.
Then there’s this other layer—one that makes it feel even more isolating. The part of me that questions what it means to express myself like this as a man. I know, logically, that vulnerability isn’t weakness. I believe in emotional honesty. And yet, there’s still a voice in my head telling me I’m not supposed to feel this way, or at the very least, I’m not supposed to talk about it like this. That voice tells me I should just deal with it, keep it inside, not make it anyone else’s problem. That voice is part of what’s kept me so disconnected for so long.
So how do I build trust—with myself, with others—when I struggle to go slow? When I have held back for so long that, the moment I have an opportunity to speak, it all comes flooding out? I feel like I overwhelm people. I watch their expressions shift, and afterward, I sit with guilt and shame, wondering if I said too much, if I should have just kept it in.
But maybe trust isn’t built in grand gestures. Maybe it’s in the small moments. The quiet acknowledgments. The practice of letting myself be seen just a little bit at a time.
I don’t have all the answers. But I know I’m trying. I know that suppressing my feelings only leads to more isolation. I know that connection takes risk. And I know that, even when it feels excruciatingly difficult, I don’t want to do this alone anymore.
This is why I want to work with people to help them find their trust in others—because I know how hard it is. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re too much or not enough at the same time. I know how terrifying it is to ask for support, to risk being seen. And I also know how much we all need it.
So here I am, practicing. Taking the next small step. And if you’re reading this and feeling the same way—maybe this is your small step, too.
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