Candid Conversations Newsletter: The Only Way Forward Is Through

“Movement is paramount for the disenchanted.”

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I’d spent time in what some people would call college towns before. Austin, Columbus, Cambridge, Providence. But Princeton has its own energy. The food, the shops, the kind of place that finds you, if you’re open enough to be found.

I was there for a long-term project, before hybrid work became the norm. Four days in the office was just how it worked. I had a rhythm: gym in the mornings, runs after work, meals from whatever new spot I felt like wandering into. Wednesdays were my reset. I’d go somewhere quiet in town, just to let the day end on my terms.

At the time, my eldest had just turned fifteen. She wasn’t living with me, but we had a rhythm too. We talked most days. I felt like there was something steady between us. Something real.

Then came the call.
Principal’s office.

She’d been skipping classes. Dropped off the honor roll.

It felt like she’d woken up one morning and declared it opposite day from that point on

None of it made sense.

Despite the relationship I thought we had, everything I trusted seemed to collapse. I didn’t see it coming. I felt like a failure—not just as a parent, but as a person.

I stopped running.
Stopped going to the gym.
The only place I still showed up was work.
It was the only part of my life that still had shape.

When the Weight Has No Name 🌀

At first, I didn’t have the words.
Just the heaviness.

I kept asking myself: What’s happening to me?

No bruises. No wounds anyone could see.
Just a fog. Like I’d been disconnected from myself but still expected to keep moving.

I wasn’t sure if it was stress or something deeper.
But I knew I wasn’t okay.

I needed to understand it, not to fix it, but to see it clearly.

The Science Behind the Spiral 🧪

I started reading, just trying to make sense of it all.

The first thing that came up was cortisol.

It’s the body’s main stress hormone. When you’re under pressure, your body makes more of it to help you survive. But when the pressure doesn’t let up, and the cortisol stays high, it wears you down.

That explained some of what I was feeling. But not all of it.

So I kept going.
I read about depression. Suicide risk factors.

I wasn’t suicidal, but I was struck by how familiar some of it sounded:

• Impulsivity

• Emotional numbness

• Hopelessness
  

It felt like reading a map of where I was standing. I wasn’t falling apart in a way people could see.
I was unraveling quietly. On the inside.

Naming the Thought 🧠

Eventually, I came across CBT—Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. It helped.

CBT gave me a way to name things. It helped me understand how thoughts, emotions, and behavior all feed each other—and how interrupting one loop can shift the rest. It didn’t solve everything.
But it gave me a place to start. Enough clarity to take one step forward.
Then another.

Observing the Moment 🧘 

Naming the thoughts helped. But I still needed a way to be in my body again, without turning it into a battleground. That’s when mindfulness found me.

“To really perceive is to stop assuming.”

That’s what mindfulness is. Noticing what’s here without trying to name it. Observing the moment instead of becoming it. It helped me zoom out emotionally. It let me stop turning a bad hour into a bad identity.

Thinking About How You Think 🔍

Then came metacognition—the ability to catch my thinking while it was happening.

To pause and ask:
Is this useful?
Is it even true?
Is this mine, or something I inherited?

We think we’re seeing reality.
Sometimes we’re just tracing old outlines.

Depression by the Numbers 📉

The more I read, the more I realized I wasn’t alone. And somehow, that made the weight feel heavier. So many people are carrying the same invisible burden.

Global 🌍 

• Over 280 million people live with depression

• That’s about 5% of all adults

• Leading cause of disability worldwide

• Rates surged by 25% during the COVID-19 pandemic

• Estimated global economic cost: $1 trillion annually

U.S. Snapshot

• 21 million U.S. adults experience major depression annually

• 1 in 5 teens (12–17) experience major depressive episodes

• Highest rates among:

  • Young adults (18–25): 18.6%

  • Women: 16.0%

  • Men: 10.1%

  • Low-income individuals: 22.1%

• Only 39–61% receive any treatment

• 87.9% say it impairs their daily functioning

Suicide Connection 🆘

• Over 49,000 suicide deaths in the U.S. in 2023

• Depression remains one of the strongest predictors

Like carbon monoxide, depression can be invisible.  You don’t know it’s there—until you can’t breathe.

And Then Came the Books 📚

Books gave me something to hold. A way to trace what I was feeling. A way to reframe it. They didn’t save me. But they helped me make sense of things. They gave me language.

And perspective. I know not everyone gets that far.

That reality still sits with me. It’s why I listen longer now. Why I ask more open questions. Why I try not to rush people to clarity they’re not ready for.

Words Have Meaning 🗣️

We’ve gotten louder as a culture.
We say more. Post more. Assume more.

But we don’t always slow down enough to ask if we’re being understood.
Or if we’re understanding ourselves.

Words matter.
Not just because they express—but because they shape.

Love.
Time.
Judgment.
Hate.

They aren’t just emotions. They’re structures.
And how we use them shapes how we show up, and how we leave.

Choose carefully.

Holding Space, Not Just Answers 🕊️ 

My daughter isn’t fifteen anymore.
She’s growing into her own voice and her own path.

I understand now that back then, she was facing a storm of her own.
Fifteen is pressure. Trying to fit in, stand out, and make sense of things you don’t yet have words for.

Mindfulness taught me to stop trying to fix her.
To start listening instead—with curiosity and patience.

Our conversations are deeper now.
We don’t just talk.
We connect.

I’ve learned to hold space for her that’s safe, but grounded.
A space where accountability and care can live side by side.

That’s one of the quiet triumphs of healing:
when what you’ve learned becomes something you can offer.
Not just to yourself—but to someone you love.

What the Darkness Taught Me 🌑

I stared into the abyss.
It didn’t swallow me.
And I didn’t become it.

I wasn’t born in the dark.
And I didn’t inherit it.

But I’ve learned how to sit beside it—
without losing who I am.

Sometimes, that’s enough.
Sometimes, that’s the way back.
And eventually, the way forward.