Growing up, my family had a birthday tradition that I absolutely loved.

Whoever was celebrating got to pick where the family went out to dinner.

It wasn’t extravagant. We weren’t hopping on airplanes or throwing giant parties. We were just going to Applebee’s or Texas Roadhouse or wherever the birthday person happened to be craving that year. Looking back, it probably seemed like such a small thing to my parents, but to us kids, it made the day feel different. It made us feel celebrated.

It’s one of those traditions I’ve always been grateful for, and it’s something I’ve tried to continue now that I have a family of my own.

I’ve realized over the years that I don’t actually need much to feel loved.

I’m not someone who expects expensive jewelry or elaborate surprises. Honestly, give me a dirty soda from Fixxology, a cheap bouquet of flowers from Walmart, and I’m a pretty happy person.

What I’ve always wanted wasn’t the gift.

It was the feeling.

I wanted birthdays, anniversaries, and the important days to feel… different. Special. Like they stood apart from every other Tuesday or Wednesday on the calendar.

Because when they didn’t, I’d end up disappointed.

Not because anyone intentionally ruined them.

Just because another year had passed, another milestone had come and gone, and somehow it felt like nothing had changed.

I think that longing probably goes a little deeper than birthdays.



When I was fifteen or sixteen years old, I was diagnosed with depression.

At first, it looked exactly like you’d expect.

I quit choir, something I absolutely loved.

I quit ballroom dance, another thing that had brought me so much joy.

I slowly stopped talking to friends.

I isolated myself.

The things that once made me feel alive suddenly felt exhausting.

But what depression stole from me wasn’t just my hobbies.

It stole… me.

The loud, goofy, chaotic ADHD version of myself slowly disappeared.

Instead, I became hyperaware of everyone else’s opinions.

I worried constantly about how people saw me.

Whether I was too much.

Too weird.

Too loud.

Too emotional.

Eventually, I stopped trying to figure out who I was and just became whoever I thought everyone else wanted me to be.

Except even that wasn’t enough.

So I hid.

It’s strange looking back because I don’t think I realized how much of myself I had lost until years later.



Now here I am, about twelve years after that diagnosis.

I’ve lost count of how many medications I’ve tried.

Some never helped.

Some worked just long enough to give me hope before they stopped working altogether.

Some came with side effects that weren’t worth the tiny improvement they offered.

Eventually my diagnosis shifted to treatment-resistant depression.

That’s a label I still don’t love.

I especially don’t love explaining it to new providers.

Sometimes they look at my medication history and almost seem frustrated, like I’m somehow “difficult.”

As if anyone would choose this.

As if anyone would willingly spend over a decade desperately wanting something, anything, to help.

Adding another layer to everything, after having Declyn, I developed epilepsy.

Suddenly certain antidepressants weren’t safe.

Treatments that might have been options before were taken off the table.

It felt like every path forward had another locked door.



Back in 2024, I started Spravato, a nasal form of ketamine.

For nearly two years, I went every week.

People always ask if it helped.

Honestly?

I’m not sure it did, at least not in the way I hoped.

But I loved going.

Not because of the medication.

Because of the psychiatrist.

Every appointment lasted around two hours, and somewhere between the monitoring and the medication, those appointments turned into what felt like therapy sessions.

For two hours, I wasn’t packing lunches.

I wasn’t folding laundry.

I wasn’t hearing someone yell, “Mom!”

I wasn’t solving problems.

I was just… Katelyn.

And after becoming a mom, I don’t think I realized how desperately I needed that.



Then February came.

I admitted myself into the Behavioral Health Center.

Writing those words still feels surreal.

I admitted myself because I had become suicidal.

I had a plan.

And, honestly, I was scared I wasn’t going to make it through the night.

I admitted myself because I wanted to live.

Because I wanted to get better for Wyatt.

For my boys.

Because I didn’t want my heart to ache every single day anymore.

Walking through those doors was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

But it also became one of the bravest.

Looking back now, I don’t see it as giving up.

I see it as refusing to.



While I was there, my sister started making phone calls.

She had experienced incredible success with IV and IM ketamine therapy and scheduled appointments for me to begin after I was discharged.

At every appointment, they have me fill out anxiety and depression questionnaires.

At my baseline appointment, my depression score was 49.

The provider looked at me and said they rarely see people score that high.

Well…

Leave it to me to be an overachiever.

It took a while before those numbers started changing.

They’re still higher than we’d ultimately like.

Life hasn’t exactly slowed down.

Between Braxtyn’s surgeries, epilepsy, court hearings, parenting, school, marriage, and everything else, there has been plenty of stress.

But the numbers have continued moving in the right direction.

And every appointment, they ask the same question.

“Do you feel any different?”

Almost every time…

My answer has been no.

Not really.

On paper, things were improving.

Inside my own head?

I couldn’t see it.

This past Tuesday my depression score was 24.

Almost half of where I started.

Surely I should feel dramatically different.

Right?

Maybe healing doesn’t always announce itself the way we expect.

Maybe when you’re living inside the storm every day, it’s hard to notice the rain has finally started letting up.



Then July 29th arrived.

Our fourth wedding anniversary.

Wyatt and I had already bought ourselves a gift earlier that month.

A new Traeger smoker.

(Yes, we’re officially at the age where appliances count as exciting gifts.)

So instead of buying more presents, I put together a little anniversary box.

Our favorite snacks.

A couple Monsters.

Letters I had written to Wyatt.

I imagined us having a movie night or playing video games together while eating entirely too much junk food.

Wyatt worked a twelve-hour shift that day.

As I was printing out the letters I’d written, I had this thought.

He probably isn’t going to have anything planned for me.

Not because he doesn’t love me.

Not because he doesn’t care.

Simply because after four years of marriage, I know my husband.

He loves deeply.

He just doesn’t always express it the same way I naturally do.

So I made sure to buy snacks for myself too.

Just in case.

We had arranged for someone to watch the boys so we could go out to dinner.

But life happened.

The boys came home earlier than expected.

Dinner plans disappeared.

Instead, we picked up Arby’s.

Put the boys to bed.

And then…

We went to bed too.

That’s it.

No grand celebration.

No romantic evening.

No picture-perfect anniversary.

Just another ordinary day.



Six months ago…

That would have crushed me.

I probably would have cried myself to sleep.

I would have replayed the day over and over, convincing myself that it wasn’t special enough.

That maybe I wasn’t special enough.

But this time…

Something was different.

As we got ready for bed, I just looked at Wyatt.

And my heart felt…

Full.

I wasn’t thinking about the dinner we didn’t have.

Or the plans that fell apart.

Or the flowers that never showed up.

I was simply overwhelmed with gratitude that I get to do life with this man.

That after everything we’ve walked through together, he’s still here.

We’re still here.

For the first time in years, I genuinely enjoyed an ordinary day.

Not because it was extraordinary.

But because I didn’t need it to be.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like.

Maybe healing isn’t waking up one morning feeling completely different.

Maybe it’s realizing, after the day is already over, that you didn’t spend it trying to chase happiness.

Maybe it’s finding joy in an Arby’s dinner, sleepy kids, and an exhausted husband after a twelve-hour shift.

Maybe it’s looking at your life and realizing…

You don’t need it to be perfect anymore.

You just need to be present.

And somehow, somewhere along the way…

I think I’m finally finding my way back to myself.