Miranda didn’t wake up one morning and decide to be depressed. It wasn’t a lifestyle choice, like intermittent fasting or suddenly liking oat milk. No. It crept in quietly, like mould behind wallpaper, until one day, she found herself crying because she dropped a spoon, and thought: Well, that tracks.

Her therapist (Chad, who wore linen shirts and said “mmm” a lot) encouraged her to “explore her thought patterns.” Her mother suggested she just “get out of the house more.” The algorithm served her relentless ads for serotonin-boosting supplements with names like “HappyRoot” and “GlowRx.” One influencer swore that ice baths and screaming into the void before 6 a.m. had “totally healed her trauma.”

Miranda couldn't tell what was more depressing - her depression, or the fact that everyone assumed she was responsible for it.

She started referring to it as The Fog. Not poetically, just literally. It rolled in. Stayed. Made everything muffled, like she was living inside a damp sock. She didn’t want to die, exactly - she just didn’t want to keep filling out forms. Or make dinner. Or participate in capitalism.

The days became a rotation of naps, existential dread, and what she called “Crippling Introspection Theater.” Her Google search history was a performance piece:

“What’s the point of anything”

“Should I buy a weighted blanket or just lie on the floor”

“Is this just late capitalism or am I broken”

And then something odd happened.

She started telling the truth.

Not “truth” in the Oprah-book-club sense. Not raw vulnerability in a curated Instagram caption. Actual, unfiltered honesty.

When people asked how she was, she said:

“Like I’m being slowly consumed by an invisible bureaucratic entity. You?”

When her boss asked if she was excited for Q3 goals, she replied:

“I’ve replaced ambition with spite. But sure.”

She wasn’t trying to be edgy. She had simply lost the energy to lie. And oddly enough, people started... respecting her? Or at least leaving her alone, which was even better.

Depression burned away the need to impress. It exposed how much of her life had been performance art for people she didn’t like. She quit group chats. Stopped RSVP’ing to things she never wanted to go to. Blocked that one “friend” who only texted to sell essential oils. She ghosted every energy vampire and joined the church of "No."

Instead, she started cultivating a different kind of life. A smaller one. One where she didn’t chase happiness like a dropped contact lens. She made a ritual of simple things: making toast. Listening to the rain. Staring blankly into space without guilt.

And maybe the world didn’t look brighter - but at least it looked real.

The fog didn’t fully lift. It still rolled in, uninvited. But Miranda had changed.

She no longer mistook numbness for failure. She no longer mistook productivity for worth. And she definitely no longer mistook a smiling selfie for someone having a good day.

The silver lining of depression wasn’t joy.

It was detachment - from nonsense.

It was permission - to opt out of the play.

It was clarity - earned the hard, unfunny way.

And sometimes, that was enough to get her through Tuesday.