Content warning: This article mentions of mental health, depression, and suicide.
Last fall, I hit the lowest point in my life. I stopped getting out of bed, refused to attend class, and was close to failing my classes. I was letting down everything and everyone that mattered to me, and yet, on paper, my life was good. I had a new relationship with a guy who loved me, a cat who curled up beside me every day and night, and my own place, which I had dreamed of for years. And yet, none of it mattered. Deep down, I didn’t want to live anymore.
Most people might’ve called it laziness. My mom, especially, saw it that way. To her, it looked like I didn’t want to try, that I was wasting all the tuition money that she was putting toward my college career. No matter how much I love her, no matter how much I knew that she just wanted the best for me, the word “lazy” always stung.
Every time I heard it, it felt like the reality of my poor mental health was being erased. Like my pain was being reduced to a simple character flaw. That word wrapped around me like a weight and suffocated me further. It made me want to hide and disappear, and for a while, that’s exactly what I did.
My Experience with Depression
Last November, I was officially diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. It felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders, even though it was something I already suspected I had. I still remember sitting in my doctor’s office, as tears ran down my face and I begged for answers. At the time, I thought my environment was to blame, which is why I went to my childhood home for nearly two weeks, hoping that ignoring college life would magically fix everything. But the problem wasn’t where I was. It was living inside of me.
The harsh reality was that I didn’t want to live anymore. It wasn’t about running away; I wanted to escape my own broken mind. I didn’t want to wake up every day to carry such a heavy weight. It wasn’t laziness, and it wasn’t me being dramatic. It was me, drowning in silence every day while trying to convince myself that I was strong enough to fight the thoughts that were slowly killing me.
My mom didn’t really get it, and she still doesn’t. She believed that I was being a “lazy college student,” as I spent my days sleeping too much and not trying hard enough in my classes. Even with those thoughts, she knew something was off. She could tell that I was at risk of losing my life by my own hands. So, she scheduled me a doctor’s appointment, desperate to try and find an answer to what was causing such intense mental pain.
My doctor watched me cry for the entire hour-long appointment as I choked out the reasons why I could have depression. I told her about my best friend, whom I had cut off a year earlier, and the hole that it left in me, one that I couldn’t seem to fill. I told her how my dad was still cut out of my life, and how that silence hurt just as much as the times when he was there. Then I admitted what scared me the most: that I was terrified of growing up. I refused to lose the fragile innocence that I’d hidden behind for years, because I knew that once I let it go, I’d have to face the world without it.
I still remember what my doctor told me during that appointment: “A lot of college students don’t want to admit that they may have struggles with depression. But you did, and that’s what makes you strong.” With that, she put me on my first SSRI medication, Lexapro. She told me that it wouldn’t be an instant fix, but after a couple of months, I would feel lighter and life wouldn’t feel as heavy. She gave me what I was desperate for, hope. With that, I packed up my car, said goodbye to my childhood home, and drove back to Orlando, ready to face the destruction that I had left behind.
Why It Hurts
Laziness is a choice. Depression is not. I never chose to have depression; it simply happened. When I first introduced the idea of depression to my mother, who also suffers from it, she told me I was just being lazy. That really stung. I knew that I was falling behind, and to hear someone confirm that, while dismissing the possibility of a mental illness not being the cause, I felt like a failure.
I know my mother loves me, but she almost made me feel like my depression wasn’t as big a deal as hers was. Her question was always, “What do you have to be sad about?” and my answer was always, “I don’t know.” I felt guilty, ashamed, and isolated. Every day, I spent lying in bed while cancelling plans with the people who mattered most to me.
Then comes the moment that replays in my head all the time. One of my supervisors sat across from me in a one-on-one meeting and stated, “You’re not the same person you were when you started this job a year ago.” This was already an emotionally heightened meeting, and that sentence felt like an extra slap in the face. Because I wasn’t the same person that I was before. I was trying to survive a depression that had nearly killed me the semester before. Instead of compassion and understanding, all they saw was a dip in my job performance.
That’s why it hurts. Because no matter how much I tried to explain and get people to understand, everyone just saw laziness where there was pain. They saw failure where there was survival. Every time they said it, it made me question if maybe they were right. That’s the kind of damage you can’t just shake off.
The Bigger Picture
College is not the sole reason why I have depression. That I can blame on genetics. But college culture has a way of twisting the knife. Everywhere I look, there’s this feeling that your worth is tied to how much you’re doing. Productivity becomes everything, and if you’re not working 24/7, it feels like you’re behind and you can’t catch up.
For me, that culture can be suffocating. When a simple act like getting out of bed feels impossible, the pressure to “do more, be more” becomes excruciating. I’d scroll through Instagram and LinkedIn to see my friends announce new jobs and internship positions while I tried to eat and go to class. The comparison was cruel. It made me feel like I was nothing while everyone else was something.
And the worst part? College doesn’t leave much room for empathy. Professors still expect you to show up for class and turn in assignments on time. Jobs still expect you to perform your best. Organizations still expect you to show up with a smile. The world doesn’t pause for mental health. If you can’t keep up, you’re seen as lazy, unreliable, and unmotivated.
College is a place to grow. That’s what it should be, anyway. It’s where you learn who you are at your core and who you want to become. For me, it became a mirror reflecting everything that I wasn’t. Instead of feeling like I belonged, I felt like an imposter. I was someone who couldn’t keep up with the culture of constantly moving. That’s the bigger picture: depression isn’t caused by one thing like college, but in an environment that praises productivity and success, it’s nearly impossible to feel like you’re anything other than a failure.
Reframing the Conversation
If someone you love or even know ever opens up about any mental illness, I promise that they’re not looking for a lecture. They don’t need quick fixes or pieces of advice like “You have so much going for you” or “Just go for a walk.” What they want is support and understanding. They want someone who won’t look at them like they’re broken, lazy, or weak.
I knew I wasn’t okay, and, in that process, I wanted solutions, but I also just wanted to feel heard. I wanted someone to sit in that heavy isolation with me and not judge me. I needed someone to say, “I believe you. I know this is hard. You’re not alone.” That would’ve meant way more to me than any piece of advice.
Reframing the conversation around depression means shifting from judgment to empathy and compassion. Instead of assuming that someone is lazy, recognize how hard they’ve been fighting to stay alive. Instead of asking, “Why aren’t you doing your work?” try asking, “How can I help you?” It’s all about listening without comparison. It’s about having compassion without minimizing what they’re going through.
At the end of the day, words matter. Calling someone “lazy” and “unproductive” can cause them to isolate themselves. Telling them that you care can give them hope. Sometimes, that little thread of hope is the only thing keeping them out of the darkness.
There’s no “normal” for me anymore. There’s just depression. It’s not what I like to use to define me, but it is something that affects me and how I live. It’s a part of me that I’ll carry for the rest of my life, but it’s not the only part of me. I’m stronger now. The bad days may never go away, but as long as I have the good ones, there’s hope for me and my future.