I’m Megan Cornish, a licensed clinical social worker who helps people with their mental health every day. 

Fifteen years ago, fresh out of college, I was working a job that involved assessing patients for depression and anxiety. I would walk into a room, make some small talk, and then screen for mental health concerns.

Do you have little interest or pleasure in doing things?
Are you sleeping too much or too little?
What about feeling down, depressed, or hopeless? 

These were the questions I asked every day, multiple times a day. I knew what the answers meant. I could recognize depression and anxiety in others from a mile away. But somehow, I didn’t see the same symptoms in myself. 

Today, I’m in a much better place—not perfect, but stronger. My experiences have taught me that recovery is an ongoing process and that we’re all more than one story.

Recognizing the Signs

Back then, I was 21 years old and just starting out as a social worker. I had just finished my bachelor’s degree and was eager to prove myself.

I didn’t notice it at first, but slowly, a sense of unease started to creep into everything I did. I chalked it up to stress- totally normal for new graduates, right?

After a while, though, I woke up every morning with this heavy feeling in my chest, like a literal weight was sitting on me. Driving to work, I’d focus on my breathing, checking constantly to see if that black hole of pressure below my sternum had gone away. It never did.

Sometimes at work, I would step into my office, shut the door, and slide to the floor. I would press my hands tightly against my chest to steady my breathing, just enough to make it through the next few hours. I burned through all of my sick days and then borrowed against days I didn’t have because getting out of bed felt impossible—until it wasn’t an option. When the only alternative was losing my job, I dragged myself to work, even though it felt like I was barely holding myself together.

I stopped crying, listening to music, or really doing anything that made me feel any emotions. I couldn’t afford to go there because I knew that life doesn’t pause for a breakdown; it just keeps going, and I was barely keeping up. But I did start sleeping more and more, taking long naps after work and counting down the hours until bedtime. I pulled away from my friends and barely noticed how much of myself I was losing. But even then, I didn’t think I had a problem. I thought I just needed to manage it better.

The Breaking Point

Everything changed at a Christmas party at work. I was sitting by a window, watching cars drive by, and I had a thought:

I wish one of those cars would come through this wall and put me out of my misery. 

There was a lot of noise in my head those days, but somehow, that thought clanged through it all like a bell and stopped me in my tracks. It was the same kind of thought I’d described to clients countless times as a sign of depression.

I remembered something I told my patients regularly:

“Your brain’s number one job is to keep you alive. If it stops trying to do that, you can be sure that something needs to be fixed.”

I didn’t want to die—I just wanted a break from the constant struggle. I was exhausted. Anxiety is exhausting.

With the alarm bells finally ringing in my head, I left the party, sat in my car, and called my partner. We’d only been dating for six months, but I told him I thought I was depressed and I really needed help. He told me to stay where I was and came to get me. He and my best friend helped me pack a bag and brought me to my parents’ house. My mom, who I always count on, found a doctor who could see me the next day. She drove me there herself. 

That first call for help wasn’t easy, but it saved me.

The Work of Recovery

That first doctor I saw was a family practice doctor, not a psychiatrist. But he was able to put me on a low dose of medication, and, for a little while, just the hope that something might change was enough to make me feel lighter. But the medication itself didn’t help much, and it came with a side effect—a racing heartbeat—that only made things worse. He had also prescribed benzodiazepines to help in the short term, but I didn’t feel comfortable taking them. I knew the risks. He told me I should see a psychiatrist as soon as possible, but the waitlist was six months long.

Six months felt unbearable, but what choice did I have? When I eventually saw a psychiatrist, they adjusted my medication and recommended therapy. But my HMO had rules. Before I could do individual therapy, I had to go through group therapy first, which came with another long waitlist. I couldn’t take waiting anymore. So, I found an out-of-network psychiatrist and a private practice therapist and paid out of pocket. It wasn’t cheap, and it stretched my budget thin, but it was the only way I could keep moving forward.

It took five years of small, slow steps to get to a fully stable place. I tried four or five different medications before we found the right combination. Therapy helped me make sense of everything and kept me grounded. Medications didn’t solve everything, but they lifted enough of the weight for me to actually engage in therapy and do the work I needed to do.

The hardest part wasn’t the appointments or the waitlists or the side effects. It was realizing that the person I thought I was—the carefree, happy-go-lucky version of me I’d always identified with—was gone, and I needed time to grieve her. Recovery wasn’t about going back to who I used to be. It was about figuring out who I could be now. And while it’s not the story I would’ve chosen for myself, I’ve learned to be okay with it. In some ways, I think I’ve even grown to like this version of me more.

Progressing Up

Therapy taught me how to understand my story and accept myself. Medication helped stabilize me, but it wasn’t a magic fix. My parents gave me a safe place to land, and my partner showed me that I wasn’t alone in this. Every setback taught me something new about myself and what I needed to heal.

There were days when progress felt slow, but looking back, I can see how far I’ve come. Recovery isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence. Each small step added up to a path forward.

Today, I’m not just a social worker. I’m a partner, a friend, and someone who lives with mental health challenges. Those challenges don’t define me, but they’ve shaped me in ways I’m proud of. I’ve learned that joy and pain can exist together, and that’s okay.

If you’re reading this and struggling, I hope my story helps you see that it’s okay to ask for help. Your mental health matters just as much as your physical health. Asking for help isn’t a weakness; it’s an act of bravery. Recovery is possible, and you don’t have to do it alone.