staceybooks

Most people don’t see the battle.

They see my job title, the events I host, the programs I lead. They see the smiles in the photos, the passion in my voice when I talk about second chances and justice reform. They see a woman who came out of prison and built something powerful, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a leader, a “success story.”

But they don’t see the moments I begged God not to let me wake up.

They don’t see the woman sitting on suicide watch in a freezing jail cell with nothing but a Bible and a broken spirit. They don’t see the quiet cries in the shower or the nights I laid in bed with tears on my cheeks and shame in my chest, wondering how I got there and if I’d ever be whole again.

They didn’t see the boutique I opened while battling a dependency on Xanax just to keep functioning, or the recruiting firm I built during one of the darkest mental health spirals of my life. They didn’t see the woman trying to sing praise on Sundays while drinking to forget on Fridays.

I fought a war in silence,

Because depression doesn’t always look like despair. Sometimes, it looks like overachievement, like smiling at the staff meeting, like leading a panel, like responding to every email while secretly asking yourself if you’re good enough to be in the room.

And even now, after all the healing and all the rebuilding, depression still shows up. Especially in professional settings, where I constantly feel like I have to fight for a seat at the table. Like I have to prove that I deserve to be there, that I’m not just a redemption story, that I’m not a liability, that my past doesn’t disqualify my present.

That judgment? It cuts deep,

Even if it’s unspoken,

Even if no one says it out loud.

The weight of always having to prove you’re no longer who you once were feeds that inner critic, stirs the anxiety, and fuels the depression.

You carry the pressure to be everything to everyone because you’re afraid if you slip, just once, it will all come crashing down.

So you keep performing, keep smiling, keep showing up, and on the inside, you’re still at war.

But here’s the truth I had to learn the hard way:

You can carry scars and still lead.

You can survive prison and still build a future.

You can battle depression and still make an impact.

You can be a mother, a wife, a leader, and a woman of faith, and still need help.

Asking for help doesn’t make you weak. Taking medication doesn’t make you broken. Therapy isn’t shameful. Telling someone you’re not okay isn’t giving up, it’s choosing to stay alive.

So if you’re fighting a secret battle today, I want you to know:

I see you,

Because I am you.

You are not alone in this, not in your pain, not in your fear, not in your exhaustion.

Your life is worth fighting for,

Even on the days it feels like too much,

Especially on those days.

Keep going.