by Andrew Kravig, LMFT.
I often feel like the new year (and all of the hype around it) arrives like an overenthusiastic motivational speaker— there’s the banging of pots and pans, folks shouting about “fresh starts,” and insisting this is the year everything changes. So much noise. Meanwhile, I’m standing over here in my mismatched socks, feeling emotionally exhausted, and wondering if it’s acceptable for me to set my expectations somewhere between “survive” and “remember to drink water.”
I live with chronic depression. And living with depression has a way of muting the fireworks. No matter how big and beautiful those fireworks might be. While the calendar flips with explosions of confetti and enthusiastic countdowns, my brain tends to respond with a kind of cautious squint. Hope feels fragile. Light feels far away. And yet—annoyingly, persistently—January still shows up, asking me what I want from the new year.
Some years, my answer is grand (overly and unrealistically so). Other years, it’s modest and measured—it would make my mom proud. This year, I’ve decided to intentionally lower the bar. Not because I don’t care, but because caring too much has a history of knocking me flat. Oof. This year, I am reminding myself that success doesn’t need to look impressive to count. Some days, success is replying to one text. Some days, it’s taking a shower. Other days, it’s simply deciding to staying, ignoring the deep urge to flee and never look back. I’m learning that progress doesn’t need NYE firework displays—it just needs permission to be small.
Depression tells very convincing lies.
It insists that nothing will change, that effort is pointless, that joy is reserved for other people who have their lives together and probably own matching Tupperware lids. I’ve stopped trying to argue with those thoughts like a lawyer and started responding like the tired, painfully stubborn human that I am. Maybe I step outside for five minutes to smell the breeze or let the sun kiss my cheeks. I laugh at something dumb. I make plans I can easily cancel. I am learning to borrow light when I can’t seem to generate my own—through conversations, familiar comforts, or reminders that I’ve felt this way before and still kept going.
Hope, for me, doesn’t arrive as a dramatic breakthrough. It sneaks in. It hides in moments I almost miss—warm coffee, when a song’s beat hits just right, the relief of making it through a day that felt impossible. Hope looks less like fireworks and more like fairy lights: small, steady, and surprisingly effective at pushing back the dark.
So I’m starting this year without unrealistic resolutions or shiny promises. I’m starting it with honesty, a little humor, and the belief that light doesn’t have to be blinding to matter. Even a flicker counts. Especially on the days when getting out of bed feels like a massive achievement.
If nothing else, the new year gives me permission to try again. And for now, that’s enough.
Therapy for depression
If you are seeking therapy for depression, you might have felt intimidated by promises from therapists like “everything will be ok.” Or worse, you’ve met with therapists who seem to treat you like there’s a 1-2-3 formula for changing your moods. If that worked, you wouldn’t be calling them for help!
It’s a little risky when therapists share their own experiences with depression, anxiety, relationship troubles, trauma, or anything else. But I think there are some folks who want to know that we’ve walked through difficulties. That will trust us more because we know what it’s like when someone essentially says “Cheer up!”
If you’re interested in therapy for depression, myself and my colleagues at Prospect Therapy are available for a free consultation.
Read more about therapy for depression here.
Read more about therapy with Andrew here.