Mask Off

A Journey Through Functional Depression

“Broke into a million pieces, and we can't go backBut now I'm seeing all the beauty in the broken glassGet up and let the jagged edges meet the light insteadShow me what's underneathThe scars are part of me, darkness and harmonyMy voice without the lies, this is what it sounds likeFearless and undefined, this is what it sounds like”– "What It Sounds Like" by Huntrx

“Time goes by, and I lose perspectiveYeah, hope only hurts, so I just forget itBut you're breaking through all the dark in meWhen I thought that nobody couldAnd you're waking up all these parts of meThat I thought were buried for goodBetween imposter and this monster, I've been lost inside my headAin't no choice when all these voices keep me pointing towards no endWe can't fix it if we never face itLet the past be the past 'til it's weightless”– "Free" by Huntrx

Living with functional depression can feel like wearing a mask every day. You smile, you show up, you do your thing—but underneath, you're just trying to survive. What many people don’t realize is that you don’t have to be lying in bed all day to be struggling. Sometimes, you just keep going, pushing through the days, but the weight is still there.

I know the struggle all too well. The constant battle of masking the pain, keeping the outside world from seeing how broken you feel inside, while also not quite knowing when or how this all started. There’s no clear cause, no magical moment when it hits you, just a creeping feeling that something’s wrong—and yet you can’t seem to pinpoint exactly what it is. And the fear of stepping outside that cycle, of taking off the mask, can be overwhelming.

It’s been a long road, but I’ve come to a place where I’m no longer afraid to admit that I deal with functional depression. My way of dealing with conflict is a simple quote “with all due disrespect sir/ma’am go to hell” although there are some occasional verbal assignations that I am a bit embarrassed to say bring me some joy. But for the most part I run to what makes me happy because sitting in what makes me sad keeps my brain racing and many unwanted thoughts. And, just like any other mental health challenge, it's something I’ll probably always carry with me. To write it down, to share it with you, is still uncomfortable. But here it goes: “Hi, my name is Latifah, and I have functional depression.” Saying it out loud is a kind of release, a first step toward freeing myself from the suffocating silence that comes with keeping it hidden.

I’ve spent 1,393 days living with this. If you met me, you’d never know. I wear a smile, I show up to work, I engage with people—but deep down, it’s like I’m walking through life in a fog. You know the type of fog that’s just thick enough to make it hard to breathe but not thick enough to stop you from moving. You keep going because what else is there to do?

What’s harder is the stuff no one sees—the grief that still lingers from the loss of my beloved Iman. Some days, I can’t even bear to look at her pictures without questioning why she had to go so soon. When I’m around kids, my nieces, nephews, and godchildren, the pain hits hard. I love them, but there’s this hollow ache that comes from knowing that my own chance at parenting was stolen from me. Some days, I envy the parents I see, enjoying moments with their children. I have memories—and a headstone to visit. And when people tell me that Iman visits their dreams, I joke about how I’ll “swing on her” when I finally see her again because I am still waiting to see her again and she's been neglecting me or maybe she knows that my heart isn't ready for her to depart yet again—because the reality is, the grief is still there, and humor is my way of masking that pain.

But that’s functional depression: you joke about it, you hide behind the facade, you do whatever you can to keep going. It’s not a cry for sympathy; it’s survival. I’ve checked off most of the things on my bucket list, but there’s this nagging fear that when it’s all over, when there’s nothing left to do, I’ll have to confront the truth of it all. And the truth is: I don’t know what comes next.

I Love Love; but love for me now is terrifying. I’ve been hurt too many times to believe that anyone deserves to love this version of me. The depression makes me pull back. I stay away because I can’t bear the thought of being disappointed again. I sabotage potential connections, telling myself it’s better to keep people at arm's length.

Depression for me is about indulgence, like spending money on things I don’t need or traveling to places I know are dangerous just to escape the overwhelming feeling inside. It’s about isolating myself, telling myself the world is too expensive to interact with. It’s about surviving, but not fully living.

Depression for me looks like staying in jobs I don’t care about, never pushing myself to do the things I’m really capable of. It’s about knowing I have the skills to make a six-figure income with my baking, but being too paralyzed to make it happen. It’s feeling uncomfortable with where I am in life, but also convincing myself that this is as good as it’s ever going to get.

But here’s the truth: This is not a cry for help or sympathy this is me finally being brave enough to rip the mask off and SAVE ME FROM MYSELF! This is my opportunity to peace, prosperity, true happiness joy and freedom! This is me being transparent and honest with not only you my readers but myself. This is therapy, this is the light at the end of the tunnel this is shedding skin and finally seeing life for what it is meant for. This is me loving my skin, new found facial moles thanks Grandma! This is me breaking through the fog and embracing the possibility of peace, joy, and true freedom. This is my opportunity to heal, to grow, and to become the person I was always meant to be.

Functional depression doesn’t define me. It’s just one part of my journey, one chapter in a much bigger story. And I’m finally ready to turn the page. I’m ready to acknowledge that my mental health is the priority, that it’s okay to not be okay. I’m learning to love the skin I’m in—even the new moles that remind me of my grandmother.

This is me throwing the cards I’ve been dealt into the air, reshuffling, and deciding that life is still worth living. Depression is not my identity, and I refuse to let it be. With every step, I’m getting closer to healing, to embracing the blessings that are still to come, and to living in my purpose. This is me hearing the deafening voice of god saying enough is enough embrace the blessings! This is me helping to heal others and living in my purpose. This is me saying thank you!

Thank you for being here, for sharing in this journey. I’m not alone, and neither are you. Let’s keep moving forward—together.