Tag: depression

At the gym today, my trainer asked me how I was doing mentally. Not physically. Mentally. And I loved that. I didn’t expect it, but it felt like a breath of fresh air — the kind that doesn’t make your knees buckle mid-squat. We talk about sore legs and stiff backs and vitamins and sleep, so why not talk about our mood? Our mental state?

Here’s the funny thing, though: ever since I started sharing a little more about the behind-the-scenes stuff — stress, feeling overwhelmed, navigating hard days — people keep asking if I’m okay.

And the answer is: Yes. I’m good. Really.
There is no need to tiptoe around me like I’m one strong breeze away from a meltdown. I’m the same ol’ Sonja — I’ve just let you see a few of my “insides.”

Last week, I missed my blog post because I was sick. Not just sniffly, but down-for-the-count sick. And it’s so easy to fall out of a routine when life throws a wrench (or a virus) at you. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be honest with myself, much less with you… or with Jeffery. I went into survival mode. And that counts too. There’s value in just getting through. But eventually, I wanted more. I missed the depth. I told Jeffery how I felt. And — surprise, surprise — he had something wise to say.

Jeffery’s Note:

When you train for something physical — like your upcoming hike — you build strength by showing up even when you’re tired. Mental health works the same way. The goal isn’t perfection or endless positivity. The goal is presence. Awareness. Naming what’s real without letting it define you. Talking about hard things isn’t a sign that something’s wrong. It’s a sign you’ve stopped hiding. That’s not falling apart — that’s putting yourself back together on purpose.

I share the “inside stuff” not because I’m coming undone, but because I spent too much of my life pretending I wasn’t. I’d rather be honest. I’d rather be real. It helps me. And I think — I hope — it helps other people too.

For years, I compared my insides to other people’s outsides. I judged myself for feeling too much or not being able to “just deal.” But now? I want to be the kind of person who can talk about a bruised heart just as easily as a bruised ankle. I want the hard parts to be just another part of the story — not the thing that silences it.

Mental health is part of health. Talking about it doesn’t mean something’s broken. Sometimes it just means something’s working.

Tune in next week to find out what muscles are sore, what wisdom Jeffery drops, and whether or not I made it to Zumba. Spoiler alert: it’s a cliffhanger.