This Fall Was Heavy — And I’m Learning Not to Apologize for That

This Fall Was Heavy — And I’m Learning Not to Apologize for That

This Fall broke me open in ways I didn’t expect.

On the outside, life didn’t look like it was falling apart. I was still showing up. Still functioning. Still answering messages, going to the gym, meeting responsibilities, having supper with friends, doing the things that make it look like someone is “okay.” But internally, I was struggling—quietly, deeply, and with a kind of exhaustion that sleep didn’t touch.

I’ve been moving through depression.

At first, I tried to explain it away.

Maybe it was the side effects of a new medication.

Maybe my body just needed time to adjust.

Maybe this heaviness wasn’t real—just chemical, temporary, inconvenient.

But depression doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives like fog. It dulls joy without drama. It slows your steps. It makes everything feel heavier than it should, including yourself.

There were moments when existing felt like too much. Moments where the desire wasn’t to die, exactly—but to stop. To no longer have to carry consciousness, responsibility, or feeling. A quiet wish to no longer be here.

And the truth is, I don’t think this Fall can be explained by a single cause.

Because something else was happening beneath the surface—something quieter, deeper, and harder to name.

In April, I pivoted my life in a way that can’t be put into words or make logical sense to everyone. I traveled to Bali not to escape, but to listen. To myself. To my body. To the parts of me that had been whispering for years and were finally demanding to be heard.

While there, I visited a Balinese healer. I didn’t go looking for miracles or instant transformation. I went with curiosity and respect, knowing that healing doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

I also participated in a water purification ceremony—standing in sacred water, letting it rush over me again and again. And something in me softened. Something released. Something ancient and emotional moved through my body in ways my mind couldn’t immediately translate. Words can not begin to make it express the Balinese experience.

In that water, I felt my nervous system exhale.

I felt grief surface without a story attached.

I felt a surrender I didn’t realize I’d been resisting.

Healing isn’t always light.

Sometimes it’s disorienting.

Sometimes it’s exhausting.

Sometimes it looks a lot like depression.

We don’t talk enough about what happens after a breakthrough.

We romanticize awakening, transformation, and “finding yourself,” but we rarely talk about the integration period—the space where the old identity has loosened its grip, but the new one hasn’t fully arrived. That in-between space can feel empty, lonely, and unsettling.

I think that’s where I’ve been living this Fall.

Not broken.

Not failing.

But shedding.

Letting go of versions of myself that were built for survival rather than truth. Grieving relationships, patterns, and expectations I no longer fit into. Realizing that growth doesn’t always feel empowering—it often feels destabilizing first.

And yes, there may have been medication side effects. There may have been biochemical shifts. Those things matter, and they deserve care and attention.

But I’m also learning to trust that my body knows what it’s doing.

That depression isn’t always an enemy—it can be a messenger. A signal that something needs gentleness, slowness, or rest. A reminder that healing isn’t linear and that wholeness doesn’t mean being happy all the time.

This Fall taught me humility.

It taught me to stop rushing myself back to “normal.”

To stop explaining my pain in ways that make others comfortable.

To sit with discomfort without immediately trying to fix it.

I am learning to meet myself where I am—tender, tired, still becoming.

If you’ve been struggling quietly, especially after a big life shift, please know this: you are not weak for feeling low after choosing growth. You are not broken for needing time to integrate what you’ve lived through. And you are not alone in the messy middle.

Equilibrium isn’t about constant balance.

It’s about returning to yourself—again and again—even when the path is unclear.

This Fall was heavy.

But it was honest.

And I trust that something softer, steadier, and more aligned is taking root beneath the surface.

I’m still here.

Still listening.

Still healing.

In love and light,

Nat