Let us address the dinosaur in the room—that big scary monster whose bones we find buried deep in our lives. Let us put aside for a moment the tricks we play to avoid talking, hearing or thinking about it. Let us talk about Depression, with a capital D.

I am no longer surprised that people don’t want to discuss depression, let alone take action to address it. But make no mistake it is an epidemic that is spreading. In many ways, I relate today’s prevalent attitude towards depression to the conversation around HIV/AIDS epidemic in the 80s and early 90s—one of willful ignorance.

So why am I even bothering? Well, to put it bluntly, I have been depressed for a very long time.

For me, the downward spiral began when I moved to India for further studies. Two days into engineering school, I realised I wasn’t cut out for it and I didn’t know a way out. My parents had already invested millions getting me there, where could I have possibly run? So, I slogged on, my self-esteem taking a hit every day that I got out of bed and struggled to get to class. Eventually, just passing another day became a triumph—anxiety, irritable bowel syndrome, fear of anything and everything, I went through it all. I would hardly sleep, my eyes wide awake, I would see dreams like theatre performances in front of my eyes, while still aware of the fan revolving overhead.

But I didn’t want to be that kid crying over the phone and troubling the parents, when I thought there’s hardly anything they could do from so far away. In retrospect, maybe I should have.

Fast forward four years and I was back home after completing my engineering. I had struggled miserably, but cleared all my subjects. My parents weren’t proud; I just passed with second division grades. During my final year, I had decided not to do anything with civil engineering, ever again. Instead, I had told myself that I would pursue a Masters in Computer Science in the United States—maybe the change would help, I had thought. It after all was the land of opportunities.

But as months ticked by, I hadn’t started studying for my GRE. Then one day, my dad sat me down and told me it is not going to work this way.

I affirmed but broke down.

For the first time in my adult life, I cried in front of him. I told him about how I had been depressed and on medication for years. I told him how difficult it was for me to carry out even the most basic daily rituals, of how I didn’t have confidence to do anything in life.

Needless to say, he was startled. That is probably the worst thing a parent can hear from their child—a child that they have invested so much expectation into. That day, my dad consoled me, inspired me even. He recalled his own hardships and how he had once seen himself as inferior to the rich kids in the neighbourhood. “Hard work, in the end, is the cure,” he had said. He didn’t hug me or wipe my tears. We were sitting on a couch with a silent emptiness wedged between us, but that day I felt that my father cared.

As a result, my days became a little brighter. Morning jogs helped me release endorphins, healthy food nourished the body, yoga and meditation revitalised the mind.

A few days later, however, as I sat in my room after my meditation ritual, my father walked in and asked when I would begin studying for my exams. I was perplexed. I thought I had explained it to him well. I thought he would understand. I thought he cared more about my health than my percentage, degrees or achievements. How could I explain to him that when you have hated yourself for years, depression doesn’t go away with one motivational talk? I have never dared be vulnerable with him again.

Later that year, I travelled to Kathmandu for my GRE exams. My older brother—all grown up and working in a reputable bank—was my anchor in the city. The very first night, he reminded me of what a disgrace I had been to the family for not having done well in my studies.

I didn’t say a word. I lay beside him in bed and didn’t sleep that night. He was well informed that I was depressed and medicating. All night, I tried to reason the hidden love and compassion in every word he spurted out. He just thinks that the ‘tough love’ will help, I kept saying to myself. That night, I made up my mind that if I were to get out of this hell, I would have to remain impervious to a world that doesn’t understand. To seek help from where it is forthcoming, rather than banging at doors that are jammed by preconceived notions.

A year or so later, now, I am doing fine, compared to the depths I have plunged to. As I write this, I am in my apartment in Washington DC, USA, all set to start my Masters in Computer Science at the George Washington University. I don’t know if God exists, but now I believe in the energy of the universe. If you are looking for help, ask for it and it will arrive. When I cried out for help after that dark night with my brother, Harpal Dhatt, a psychologist and Kindness Expert from the UK, suddenly appeared in my life. At my lowest point, I reached out to her for help and was introduced to self-compassion, mindfulness and kindfulness. I have been practicing guided self-compassion mediation, as suggested by her, and ever since things have only become better.

So, why am I writing about my hardships and struggles? I am writing this because I know how hard it is for someone going through depression to find the right resources and to get the right help. So, to you, the ones who are lost and uncertain, I want to tell you that you matter. When I had weeks of insomnia and wanted to kill myself in my hostel room because I thought I was cursed, somewhere I knew I mattered and someday if I live, if I try my best not to give up, life would be good again. When after coming home to hopeful parents who I’d disappoint, I tried to hang myself with an old shirt. Then too, I knew in some corner of my heart that someday I will breathe with ease and not heartache. If no one hugs you and tells you all of the beautiful things you deserve to hear, remember you are your only anchor and you can firmly ground yourself in the worst of storms. The feelings inside you are not who you are; they can change and someday, it can feel “good” again. Please, carry on. One more day.

To you, who do not understand depression, be compassionate to every living being. If they exist, they exist for a reason and if you co-exist, it is your equal responsibility to let them live, and to help them live fully. Hug them, tell them it’s okay and it will be okay. Seek medical help on their behalf if need be.

But above all, shower them with so much love that their soul becomes whole again.