A Surprising Way to Support a Depressed Person

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There’s a little-known and surprising way to support someone who is depressed. Do nothing. Yes, you read that right.

I should know. I’ve been depressed many times. I’ve been mildly depressed. I’ve been severely depressed. I’ve been suicidally depressed, and everything in between, many times.

On and off, over the past few months, I’ve been depressed.

As much as friends have problem-solved with me, empathized with me, and tried to figure things out with me, one of the most helpful things they’ve done is keep me company—sitting beside me, containing, not fixing. It’s not a glamorous way to support someone. And it’s certainly not a very strenuous way to support someone. But for me, often, it’s all I need.

Sometimes I feel so horrible in my own skin that it’s hard for me to understand why anyone would want to be around me. Watching a movie beside someone or going for a hike and picking mushrooms with friends—like I did today—and saying nothing about the fact that I’m depressed—talking nothing about my feelings, talking nothing about how I don’t know if I’m going to feel better—is exactly what I need.

It helps me get into my body. It helps me stay out of my head. And it helps me realize that the people around me love me no matter how I am. They love me exactly as I am, for who I am.

Depression is insidious—those of us who have been there know what I’m talking about. It convinces us not only that we aren’t good enough, but that we don’t deserve to exist. We’re a burden. We’ll infect people around us. So better to stay away. Isolate. Keep small.

But when my friends are willing to talk to me, when they want to talk to me—about anything—it helps keep my head above the drowning line. The conversation doesn’t need to be deep; it doesn’t need to be about how I feel—in fact, it’s better if it’s not.

It could be cracking a joke about the last Friends rerun I watched. It could be hearing about Henry, the 12-year-old son of one of my best friends, and how his hockey tournament went. Or it could be about the Smitten Kitchen recipe another very close friend just made for her husband.

Those are the things that help normalize my sense of self—especially when my depressed self doesn’t feel normal at all.

I wish there were bells and whistles; I wish there were a formula that could help me feel better when I feel depressed. But there isn’t.

Time passes. I do the things I know help—my wellness tools. I get under my SAD (seasonal affective disorder) light. Which, on a side note, should honestly be called a “happy light.” SAD light isn’t all that reassuring or optimistic.

I go for a run. I get outside. I spend time in nature. I take my medication. I eat my salad, eat my veggies. I cook something for myself. I get something accomplished. I get enough—but not too much—sleep, and I make sure I contact a friend or smile at a neighbor when I walk around the block for social contact. And eventually, I start to feel better.

But in between, I need friends to witness me. To acknowledge that I exist, just as I am. Nothing grand. Nothing dramatic needs to happen.

When I was first recovering from very severe psychosis, a friend of mine, Kerry, did something wonderful—something so simple, so uncommon, that it meant everything. He invited me over to watch a movie and share a bowl of his mother’s famous borscht. It made me feel so normal when I felt so abnormal.

We laughed at the movie. I can’t remember what movie it was. We finished our soup, rinsed our dishes, and I hugged him before I drove home.

Those were the moments—and they still are the moments—that help me feel grounded, centered, and that life is okay—even if it feels uncomfortable.

If someone you care about is depressed, consider letting go of the urge to fix, reassure, or problem-solve. Instead, offer presence without an agenda. Invite them to do something ordinary. Sit beside them. Talk about everyday things. Let silence be okay. In choosing to stay—to sit beside, to walk beside—without trying to change how they feel—you remind them that they belong. There’s a place for reassurance, talking about emotional ups and downs, and brainstorming solutions, but sometimes the support needed is much quieter.

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© Victoria Maxwell