When the Depression Arrives: Coping with Post Surgery Recovery and Finding Healing Through Routine Mental Health After Injury: Finding Light in the Fog

I can feel the depression before I even open my eyes.

It’s like a fog that settles in my chest overnight—heavy, familiar, and unwelcome. I lay there, tossing and turning, bargaining with the morning. Maybe if I fall back asleep, I’ll wake up somewhere else. Someone else. But I know better. Once I open my eyes, I’m here. And there’s no turning back.

The days blur. Time becomes slippery. Where have I been the past three days? I could tell you a few things, but mostly I’ve been down in the pothole again. This time, it feels deeper. The walls are damp concrete, and I swear I can smell the dust of construction above me—some endless project that never seems to finish. The jackhammers pound like a chant at the start of a yoga class. Oddly comforting. Familiar.

There’s light at the top of the hole. No people this time. Just a grey sky, the kind that promises rain—not a dramatic Dallas storm, but that slow, unrelenting Pacific Northwest drizzle that seeps into your bones.

I know why I’m here. It’s the ankle surgery. Three weeks in, and I can’t keep up with my usual frenetic pace. I joke that it’s God’s way of slowing me down. Otherwise, I’d run myself into the ground—and I’d enjoy it. I’ve always loved overplanning. My friends tease me: fifteen plans for one day, and I spin the wheel to see where I land. My feelings move fast. Sometimes too fast. I act before my mind catches up.

There’s a concept in psychotherapy called the TFA Triangle—Thoughts, Feelings, Actions. Ideally, it’s balanced. Mine? Not so much. My triangle is all feelings and action, with thinking dragging behind like a kid being pulled to school. That impulsivity served me well in my twenties. When my friend Trisha asked if I wanted to ride with her to L.A. for a nursing assignment, I was packed before she finished the sentence. When my company expanded to the Bay Area, I threw my hat in the ring without thinking about what I was leaving behind in L.A.—my friends, my comfort, the beach. (Spoiler: you don’t go to the beach in San Francisco.)

And yet, here I am. A life I built. A damn near picture-perfect life. But when the symptoms of depression hit, it’s like I forget all of that. I don’t want to go outside—literally or figuratively. The shame creeps in. The voices start up.

Who do you think you are, lying in bed like a bum? What the hell did you do to break your ankle? You’re always moving too fast. Always clumsy.

I have to push those voices aside. I have to act my way out of the sadness. That’s what works for me. Behavioral activation. Fake it till you make it. I drag myself out of bed. I make a plan. I follow it. I get in the shower and breathe. I shave. I get dressed. Each action is slow, like moving through felt. But I do it.

I pull myself into the present. I look at my feet. I breathe. I remind myself: Right now, in this moment, everything is okay.

I look at my beautiful family. I thank God. And I get out of the house.

One of my favorite tools—silly as it sounds—is going to the mall and talking to salespeople. Chris and I have talked about it. There’s something therapeutic about it. I ask, How’s your day? And before I know it, I’ve bought a shirt and learned that Linda is getting married in two weeks but isn’t sure about the wedding. And just like that, I’m reminded of what I’m here to do.

Build community.

That’s what I’m trying to do with my yoga business. With this blog. Create a space where people aren’t afraid to be vulnerable. Where we can talk about how trauma is stored in the body—and how conscious breathing, mindfulness, and movement practices can help release it. But none of that happens unless we show up. Authentically. With a smile. With grace.

And maybe, just maybe, with a little forgiveness for ourselves.