The Depths

There are days when I feel myself being pulled under, slowly, softly into the depths of the ocean.

It’s not violent.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just this steady sinking, as though gravity itself is asking me to rest. To stop fighting. 

Down here, everything becomes muffled. The noise of the world fades away, the endless messages, the to-do lists, the expectations. Even my own thoughts start to quiet, until all that’s left is the sound of my heartbeat echoing through water.

It feels like a vacuum. Like being held in a womb. Safe. Suspended. Weightless.

For the first time in a long time, I can breathe.

I can feel my body again.

I can feel my heart.

Time stops.

And in that stillness, in that dark, vast, all-consuming silence there is peace.

We never really understand depression until we’ve lived it.

You can read about it, imagine it, empathise with it but you’ll never really know what it feels like until you’ve been there.

It’s like giving birth. Or being shot. You can imagine the pain, you've seen it in movies but you can never really grasp the intensity of it.

And even when you have, it’s almost impossible to explain.

We’re still so uncomfortable talking about it.

It’s treated like weakness.

Something that needs fixing.

Something to be rationalised even, as if a few positive thoughts could drag you back to the surface.

It’s so much easier to say, “I’ve got the flu,” or “I’ve got a migraine.”

Those things make sense to people.

But say you’re depressed and suddenly everyone wants to help you move.

“Get up, go outside, do something fun.”

Sometimes I even say I have a migraine when what I mean is I can’t bear to be alive today.

It’s easier. More acceptable. Less confronting.

I hope one day we can speak about depression the way we speak about any other illness, without shame, without fear of being judged or pitied.

I hope we can say, “I’m not okay,” and have that be enough.

And yet, here I am — a teacher of wellness.

A guide of light.

Someone who speaks of meditation, breathwork, healing and joy.

How do I admit that I, too, sometimes fall apart?

How do I tell people that I, too, have nights when I can’t answer messages, days when my body feels too heavy to move, mornings when the thought of surviving feels unbearable?

It feels almost forbidden in my world, as though I should be immune to pain because I teach the antidotes.

Immune to sadness because it’s ungrateful, when I have so much and know the power of gratitude.

But maybe depression isn’t a sickness in the mind. Maybe it’s the soul refusing to comply with a world that’s lost its way.

Sometimes my heart hurts so much it feels like it’s breaking open, not just for me but for everyone.

For all the pain, the cruelty, the noise, the numbness.

For the suffering that I can’t fix.

And the pretending that everything is fine when it isn’t.

It’s alien to me.

It’s always been.

Even as a little girl, I looked around and thought, this doesn’t make sense.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always understood addiction, that endless cycle of escape, shame and return.

Depression can feel the same.

It’s like a light switching on and off.

You never know when but you always know it will.

You can try your best

to stay “on,”

to keep shining,

to keep showing up

but deep down, you know the switch will flick again.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s not a light switching off.

Maybe it’s a light switching on.

Maybe in these moments of darkness, we finally see.

We finally feel.

We step out of autopilot.

We stop spinning on the hamster wheel and remember that time is real, that death is real, that our hearts are still beating.

Maybe depression is our soul’s way of saying:

Stop. Feel. Listen. Remember who you are.

If you’re here, in the depths, please know you’re not alone.

You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re human, beautifully, painfully, human.

And maybe, like me, you’ve discovered that sometimes, the deepest darkness can feel like a kind of home because it’s quiet enough to finally hear your own heartbeat.

If you’ve ever felt this way, if the world has ever gone quiet and heavy around you, please know you’re not alone.

Depression doesn’t make you broken or weak.

It shows that your heart still feels, still cares, still longs for meaning in a world that often forgets its own.

When you’re ready, come back to your body.

Take one slow breath.

Feel your feet on the ground.

Let the earth hold you for a while.

This is what we practice at House of Leyla, the art of returning home to yourself, even when you feel lost. Through breath, movement, stillness and community.

We remember that healing isn’t about escaping the darkness, it’s about finding light within it.

If you need a space to rest, to move, or simply to be seen, our doors are open. 🤍

www.houseofleyla.com

Sending you all love & healing

Leyla x

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