Why I Don’t Get Depression

If depression had a recipe, I think I’ve got all the ingredients. And if it came as a checklist, I’d tick every box: midlife, empty rooms, weak knees, and way too much time alone.

Right now, I’m stuck in my childhood home with a knee fracture. It’s funny how this house, once the scene of my growing-up years, now feels like both a place of healing and a place of holding back.

My children are both married and busy building their own lives, one in another state and the other on the other side of the globe. They call, they care, they check in, but they can’t be here all the time.

My husband is at his workplace, and I used to live there too before my accident. Now I’m not sure when I’ll be able to board a train or catch a flight back to the city I’ve long loved and call my home, for reasons I can’t quite explain.

But one thing I know for sure is that I miss the scent of jasmine flowers and the colorful heaps of rangoli powders decorating every nook and corner of the city.

These days, on some mornings, I wake up to the familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee and crispy dosas, and it feels as if the universe has wrapped me in nostalgia.

But on other mornings, I stare at the immobilizer on my leg and sigh, wondering when I’ll be back with my cat, Kunju. We try to meet over video calls, but we both know how much we miss our time together.

When will I walk into the library on my own? Both the libraries I love have more than ten steps.

When will I wander into an antique shop, not to buy anything, but simply to breathe in that old-world smell and run my fingers over objects carrying whispers of the past?

When will I start evening walks?

When will I sit down to play the veena?

When will I take off on one of my beloved solo trips, the kind that makes me feel alive and free?

When will I sit with my college friends again for coffee or have a day out?

And when will I dance at cousins’ get-togethers? Not that I’m a trained classical dancer, but with the few basics I picked up, I can fake it well enough. After all, they’re my cousins. We grew up together, and I’ve got skin thick enough to laugh along if they tease me.

Despite the zillion questions looping endlessly in my mind, the immobilization and restrictions haven’t pushed me into a dark place. I do get bored at times, but then I simply let my mind wander, collecting little stories and thoughts along the way.

These days, my only constant companions are my laptop and, of course, my walker, Vasu. I scribble thoughts into paragraphs. Some become blog posts, most vanish in seconds. I read, listen to old film songs, and occasionally watch movies.

Writing has become my lifeline. Words don’t just fill time; they keep me going. When they flow effortlessly, I know I’m in a good place.

I don’t write for anyone else. Thanks to a few friends who might read or comment, but mostly, I write for myself. Sometimes, I even delete what I’ve written!

I love lines from writers, speakers, and movies—some linger long after I hear them. I often think of Maya Angelou: “You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” That line feels almost tailor-made for me.

Virginia Woolf once wrote, “No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” I repeat this to myself whenever I feel pressured to bounce back too quickly.

She also spoke of “a room of one’s own,” a space to think, create, and simply be. These days, my laptop has become that little room, carrying me wherever I want to go, even if my legs can’t. In that space, I write, dream, and explore, free to wander far beyond the limits of my restricted movement.

Unlike Gen Z, I don’t scroll endlessly through Instagram, but I do post pictures and reels sometimes. I never get lost in the million WhatsApp groups I somehow belong to, with or without my permission. I check WhatsApp now and then, and if someone messages me personally, I reply as soon as I can.

I catch up with one or two close friends regularly. One is seven seas away, yet she makes it a point to catch up with me every week, no matter what. And really, I couldn’t ask for more.

Don’t think my mind is as hard as a rock. I do cry at times, especially since my pain tolerance is quite low. Not my opinion, by the way; that’s what the people who live with me say. I also get a bit anxious on hospital review days, as I can’t help anticipating some pain.

I know that soon I’ll be back with Kunju, my pet cat, and playing my veena again, revisiting the ragas I once played with ease.

I know that I’ll be behind the wheel again, going on the journeys I’ve dreamed of and exploring temple architecture once more.

I know that soon I’ll be free to do whatever I want—like watching the flower lady smile as she strings garlands of jasmine and marigolds, with bright rangoli powders lighting up the shops.

Until then, in my little room, I hold on to these lines of wisdom to get through this quiet-yet-noisy time. I remind myself: this too shall pass.

So no, I haven’t and don’t fall into depression the way Gen Z often talks about it. Not because I’m invincible, but because I’m enjoying wandering through my midlife. Half the time, I don’t even know where I’m headed, yet I’m curious enough to keep walking. And maybe that curiosity is what keeps me from drifting onto the shores of depression.

P.S. Tweaking Archimedes a bit: give me my laptop and a spot to sit, and I can move my world.