starting therapy felt like climbing a mountain. but medication? that felt like admitting defeat.

i remember sitting in my therapist’s virtual office when she first brought it up. my stomach dropped. i wasn’t against medication in theory—i’d recommended it to friends before. but for me? that felt different. harder. scarier.

why i resisted for so long

the reasons piled up in my head like a wall i couldn’t break through. i didn’t want to depend on anything to feel normal. what if i couldn’t function without it? what if it changed who i was? what if i became some hollow version of myself?

and honestly, i just didn’t have enough information. everyone’s experience seemed different. some people swore by their meds. others talked about side effects that sounded worse than the problems they were trying to solve. i felt lost in a sea of conflicting stories with no map to guide me.

so i kept putting it off. telling myself i could handle it. that i just needed to try harder, meditate more, sleep better, exercise more consistently. if i could just get my shit together, i wouldn’t need chemical intervention.

when everything fell apart

then depression hit like a freight train.

not the “i’m having a bad week” kind. the kind where getting out of bed feels impossible. where showering is an accomplishment. where you can’t remember the last time you felt anything resembling joy or hope or even just… neutral.

i didn’t know what to do anymore. all my coping strategies crumbled. therapy helped, but it wasn’t enough. i was drowning and i needed a lifeline.

the guilt was real

even when i finally agreed to try medication, the guilt sat heavy in my chest. i felt like i was weak. like i was taking the easy way out. like i should be able to fix this myself.

i didn’t tell many people. when someone asked how i was doing, i’d say “better” without mentioning the prescription bottle in my bathroom. i felt ashamed, like i’d failed some invisible test of strength.

looking back, that guilt was its own kind of mental torture. i was already struggling—why did i need to punish myself for accepting help?

how i feel now

here’s what i wish i could tell my past self: taking medication doesn’t make you weak. it makes you brave enough to do what you need to survive.

i feel better now. not perfect. not “cured.” but better. the fog has lifted enough that i can see the ground beneath my feet again. i can laugh without it feeling forced. i can make plans without assuming i’ll be too depressed to follow through.

and the guilt? it’s gone.

because i realized something important: if you had diabetes, you’d take insulin. if you broke your leg, you’d use crutches. mental health is health. treating it isn’t cheating. it’s not weakness. it’s not giving up.

it’s choosing yourself. it’s deciding that you deserve to feel better, even if that means getting help from a bottle of pills.

some days are still hard. medication isn’t magic. but it gave me enough breathing room to actually work on the deeper stuff in therapy. it stabilized the ground beneath me so i could start rebuilding.

what i’d say to someone considering it

if you’re where i was—scared, confused, guilty about even thinking about medication—i want you to know: it’s okay to need help. it’s okay if your brain needs a little chemical adjustment to function the way it’s supposed to.

you wouldn’t feel guilty about wearing glasses to see clearly. this isn’t different.

talk to your doctor. ask questions. be honest about your concerns. and if you decide medication is right for you, know that you’re not alone. and you’re not weak. you’re just taking care of yourself the best way you know how.

and that’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.