The Pills That Don’t Make Me Weak.

I used to think taking medication meant I’d failed. Failed at coping. Failed at healing. Failed at being strong.

People wanted it to be simple.

“Go for a walk.”

“Get more sun.”

“Take vitamins.”

“Try yoga.”

“Just stay busy.”

They meant well. But it felt so much bigger than the simple things.

I heard all the suggestions. I even believed some of them might help. But they felt impossibly big.

I didn’t give them a valiant effort because I couldn’t. Not with the weight of depression pressing down. Not with anxiety, convincing me that even joy was dangerous.

It was hard enough to get out of bed. Hard enough to shower. Hard enough to pretend I was okay.

So no, I didn’t walk until my legs ached. I didn’t sit in the sun long enough to burn. I didn’t force myself into spaces that felt like noise.

I wanted to. But wanting and doing are oceans apart when your nervous system is drowning.

I’ve taken Zoloft. Lexapro. Wellbutrin. Now I’m on Lamotrigine and Lamictal. Each one came with its own story, side effects, stigma, and slow shifts. Each one taught me something about surrender.

I didn’t want to need help. I wanted to pray it away, walk it off, write through it. But healing isn’t a performance. And medication isn’t a shortcut, it’s scaffolding.

The pills don’t make me weak. It makes me functional. It makes me able to parent, to show up, to breathe without bracing.

I still have hard days. Medication doesn’t erase the trauma. But it gives me a floor to stand on. It quiets the chaos just enough for me to hear myself think.

I’m not ashamed anymore. I’m proud of the version of me that chose help over hiding. That chose stability over shame. That chose life.

These pills don’t fix me. But they hold me steady while I do the work. And that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.