The beauty I found in writing a book (on depression).

Time with myself.

Exploring my experiences, my story, and the things over the past twelve years (of depression) that make me who I am.

Realising just how much I’ve learnt about myself and my mental health over the years. Not just practical tools, but how I look after myself, how to be kind to myself, how to accept myself, and how I’ve navigated and embraced my identity since I was first depressed.

Feeling like I’m helping a friend; feeling close and connected to the ‘imaginary’ person I was trying to help, through my own experiences and learning.

Taking something from an idea to a whole book. Nurturing it; witnessing it grow; giving life to it.

Turning a messy experience into a coherent, flowing, meaningful story that makes so much sense. Finding order and meaning in that chaos.

The discipline I had to find within myself and exercise every day, over the months and years. Although it was hard, it was beautiful seeing myself commit to this ‘thing’ and giving myself to it entirely.

Finding pride in something that has been a source of such (unwarranted) shame for so long.

Distilling such an important and life-changing experiencing for me into a mother fucking book.

“Turning shit into gold!”

My ‘phoenix from the flames’. This book almost didn’t happen for a few reasons. But it did – and it’s so much better for it. It took so much resilience to get it here.

Feeling so supported and that I had a whole bunch of cheerleaders who believed in me and what I was creating.

Connecting with the deepest parts of myself through writing.

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