How Empathy Kept Me Alive

“What does depression feel like?”
You don’t want to live, but you don’t want to die. You don’t want to talk to anyone, but you feel incredibly alone. You wake up in the morning and just wait for the night to come.

There was a night in my early twenties I’ll never forget.

I was lying on the floor of my bedroom, face pressed into a pillow, sobbing hard enough to shake. I held that pillow like it was the only thing keeping me alive. And maybe, in some way, it was. I didn’t want anyone to hear me—so I buried the sound. That’s something depression teaches you: how to cry quietly so the world doesn’t notice you’re breaking.

I had just been rejected by someone I cared about. She chose a friend of mine instead, and even though he never knew how much it affected me, things like that always seemed to happen to me. It wasn’t just about her. It was everything. It was years of trying too hard, loving too deeply, hurting too often.

The Weight of Feeling Everything

When I was a kid, my mom used to joke that I was too sensitive. She’d say it lightheartedly, not in a mean way—just something like, “You feel everything, don’t you?”

And I did. I always have.

I didn’t know it back then, but that sensitivity was both my greatest strength and my heaviest burden. I felt my pain. I felt other people’s pain. And I couldn’t keep it to myself—I had to share it. Talking about how I felt was the only therapy I had. I wasn’t doing it for attention. I just didn’t know how else to carry it all.

Still, that label—“too sensitive”—got in my head. In the world I grew up in, soft boys didn’t get far. You were either tough or a joke. And even though I wore my heart on my sleeve, I believed I was weak. But here’s the truth I only figured out years later:

I wasn’t soft. I was steel wrapped in emotion.

I was carrying more than most people could see—and surviving it.

The Early Grief That Shaped Me

When I was three, we lost my baby brother. He was just a little thing—not even old enough to speak in full sentences. My mom lived in the hospital during the last six months of his life. I don’t remember much, but I remember her eyes.

There was always sadness behind them, even when she smiled. That kind of loss doesn’t disappear. It just becomes a quiet part of you.

But there was strength in her too. She never gave up on life. She never stopped loving the people around her. And that strength… it planted something in me. Something I didn’t fully understand until much later.

Chasing Numbness, Finding Chaos

As I got older, that weight I carried became harder to explain. I didn’t have the words for it, and honestly, I didn’t want to deal with it. So I leaned into the things that helped me escape.

Drinking. Partying. People.

Being alone with my thoughts was like sitting in a locked room with a cruel voice in my head. So I avoided silence. I chased distraction. I clung to being around people—anyone—just to fill the space inside me.

At first, it worked. Alcohol gave me a break from feeling too much. Nights out meant I didn’t have to think about what was really wrong. But the relief never lasted. The hangovers got heavier—not just physically, but emotionally. I started getting into trouble, making bad decisions, and putting too much of my emotional weight on friends who didn’t sign up for it.

I wasn’t just trying to have fun. I was trying to survive.

I thought if I was around people, I wouldn’t feel so empty. But you can still feel alone in a crowded room—especially when you’re the one making everyone laugh just to hide your own pain.

The Funny Guy Nobody Knew

I became the funny guy. The guy who could make you laugh when you were having a bad day. And I genuinely loved doing that. I loved seeing people smile. It made me feel useful, needed, maybe even loved.

But humor was also my shield. If I could make you laugh, you wouldn’t see the darkness in my eyes. You wouldn’t see how broken I felt inside.

We didn’t grow up in a world that encouraged boys to talk about feelings. If you opened up, you were weak. If you cried, you were soft. So I kept most of it buried. And I started fearing myself.

I was never really a gun guy—not because of politics or principle—but because I was scared of what I might do if I had one. That’s how deep the pain went. I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t know how to live, either.

Empathy as a Lifeline

Through all of this, one thing kept me tethered: empathy.

It’s strange to say, but it was the love I had for other people that kept me alive. I thought about my mom—about what it would do to her if she lost another son. I saw what suicide did to families. One of our close friends took his own life, and I watched the hole it left behind. His death wasn’t just a moment—it was a lifetime of unanswered questions and unfillable silence.

Even in my darkest moments, that stayed with me.

I couldn’t do that to the people I loved.

And more than that, I wanted to believe that there was something better waiting on the other side of this pain. That maybe, just maybe, this empathy I carried—the thing that once felt like a curse—might actually be the thing that could heal me, and maybe even help someone else.

The Slow Climb Out

There wasn’t one big “aha” moment that turned everything around. It was slow. Messy. A process of learning, unlearning, and learning again.

I started talking. Not just joking, but really talking—letting people see behind the curtain. I got more honest. I found spaces and people who could hold that honesty. And slowly, I began to understand that the pain didn’t have to go away for me to find peace. I just had to stop pretending it wasn’t there.

My sensitivity wasn’t weakness. It was a form of strength this world desperately needs.

I love my life now. I have a beautiful family, a job I care about, and a reason to wake up in the morning. I still carry that sensitivity with me—but now I see it as a superpower.

My mom never knew how much she saved me. Just by being there. Just by loving me through it all. Just by being someone I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

Teaching Moments: What I Hope You Take from This

• 🧠 You’re Not Alone
  Depression lies. It isolates you. But I promise, more people understand than you think. We’ve stood in that same darkness.
• ❤️ Empathy Can Be Life-Saving
  Caring deeply about others kept me alive. Let your love for the people in your life anchor you—and let their love in, even when you feel unworthy.
• 🤝 Talk About It — Even If It’s Messy
  You don’t need the perfect words. You just need the courage to speak. Therapy, a friend, a hotline—your voice matters.
• 🍻 Be Honest About the Escape Routes
  Partying, drinking, constant company—they can feel like medicine at first. But if you’re always running, ask yourself what you’re running from.
• 💬 Soft Doesn’t Mean Weak
  Sensitivity isn’t softness. And softness isn’t weakness. I used to think I was fragile. Now I know: I’ve been surviving storms no one else could see.
• 🌍 Let’s Normalize Emotional Honesty
  Let’s build a world where kids, teens, and adults feel safe saying, “I’m not okay.” Vulnerability is power. And sharing your story might just save someone else’s.

Final Words

This blog isn’t just about me. It’s about us. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt too much, been told they were too soft, or lived with pain they didn’t know how to explain.

If you’re struggling: Stay. The world still needs you.
If you’re healing: Speak. Someone else might need your story.

And if you’re like me—sensitive, emotional, full of heart—don’t ever let the world make you feel small for that.
You might be the strongest person in the room.