Parenting Through Depression Is Still Parenting.

Some days I parent from the floor. Not metaphorically, from the actual floor. Because standing feels like too much. Because my body is heavy with something I can’t name. Because depression doesn’t wait for nap time or school drop-off or a moment of quiet. It just arrives. Loud. Uninvited. And still, I parent.

I make breakfast. I pack bags. I answer questions with a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. I smile when I need to. I cry when I can. I show up in ways that don’t look graceful, but are still real. And that counts.

I used to think parenting through depression meant I was failing. That my kids deserved someone brighter, steadier, more whole. But now I know: they deserve someone honest. Someone who names the hard days. Someone who teaches them that love doesn’t disappear when the light dims.

There are days I feel like a ghost in my own home. I go through the motions, but I’m not fully there. And yet, I still check homework. I still braid hair. I still whisper “I love you” even when I don’t feel lovable. That’s not failure. That’s resilience.

I’ve learned to stop measuring my worth by how much energy I have. I’ve learned to stop comparing myself to parents who aren’t carrying this weight. I’ve learned that showing up, even imperfectly, is still showing up.

Parenting through depression is still parenting. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always patient. But it’s real. And my children will know that love can exist even in the fog.