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Illustration by Christine Wei
I turned 41 this year. And somewhere between 39 and 41, I realized something that’s hard to admit and even harder to explain: I’ve probably been depressed for most of my life.
That might sound dramatic. It’s not like I came out of the womb sighing. But honestly, I can’t remember a version of myself that wasn’t carrying something heavy. As a kid growing up in Hong Kong, I didn’t think of myself as depressed. That low, grey feeling just felt like my default setting – like it was baked into my personality. I didn’t question it. I didn’t even know life could feel different. It was like the humidity in July or the constant buzz of the Mong Kok neighbourhood – just part of the atmosphere I lived in.
I’ve been living in Toronto for nine months now. The sidewalks here are wider, the pace is slower, the pressure more polite, and the emotional chaos much better disguised. But still, I saw it – the same heaviness in people’s eyes. On the sidewalks, in the streetcars, on the buses. Maybe not as loud as Hong Kong, but still there. And I began to wonder: maybe it’s not just Hong Kong. Maybe it’s not just me. Maybe the world is full of quietly heavy-hearted people, all trying to hold it together with small talk and to-do lists.
Depression is weird like that. For some people, it sneaks in. For me, it’s always been there – like blood in my body. Not something that arrived after a bad breakup or a job loss, but something that’s been running through me since the moment I started noticing the world. At times, it felt like invisible chains – not enough to crush me, just tight enough to make everything harder. You learn to live with it. You even learn to joke about it. But deep down, you know you’re dragging something no one else can see.
Two years ago, everything caught up to me. Full system crash. I burned out, broke down and finally stopped pretending I was fine. I’d seen psychiatric doctors before – half-heartedly – but this time, I went all in. I quit my job. I cleared the schedule. I made healing my full-time job.
The recovery wasn’t magical. There were heavy meds, roller coaster moods, long days of insomnia and longer nights of wondering if I’d ever feel normal again. But toward the end of that nine-month stretch, I felt something I’d never really felt before: I actually felt better. Steadier. Lighter. Like maybe life didn’t have to be so hard.
My doctor asked me, “If 10 is the best you’ve ever felt and zero is the worst, where would you put yourself now?”
I paused. Six, I thought. But I didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d been kind, steady and didn’t deserve a discouraging scorecard. So I said, “Six and a half.”
He didn’t exactly laugh, but I think he enjoyed the precision. Then he told me – gently, confidently – that I was probably closer to a seven or eight.
But depression doesn’t work like Yelp reviews. There’s no clean measurement. Even the people who live with it don’t always know how to rate their own pain. It’s not like a broken arm you can point to. Sometimes the ache is everywhere. Sometimes it’s nowhere. Sometimes you’re fine until you’re not.
I’ve spent some time thinking about life as a 60-year arc. If the first two-thirds are for growing, exploring and experiencing the world – the most exciting parts – I’ve already lost most of mine to depression. That thought used to haunt me.
But lately, I’ve started wondering: What if I still have the last third? What if I can live that part differently?
Not just for myself, but mostly for the people I love. For my mom – my dad died when I was still in secondary school. For my younger sister and brother. I love them deeply. And I know I never really showed up the way an eldest son or big brother should – not because I didn’t want to, but because I was living under a shadow too heavy to lift.
My courage to reclaim this final chapter of life comes from a simple wish: to give something back. They have children now, good jobs, happy families – they’ve built strong, full lives. They don’t really need my help or care. But they still love me deeply. And more than anything, they want to see me happy – to see their son, their brother, at peace.
And giving them that version of me – even now – helps me make peace with the years I couldn’t be there in the way I wanted to. That’s my wish. That’s where my strength comes from. That’s how I keep healing – and slowly, winning myself back.
Joe Lee lives in Toronto.
