The Season When Music Filled Everything

There was a season not too long ago when music quietly filled almost every space in my day. I did not notice it happening at first. It simply became part of the rhythm of things, like breathing between conversations or the soft noise of a city outside the window.

The music was P-Pop.

If someone had told me a year earlier that I would be listening to Filipino pop music almost constantly, I probably would have smiled politely and moved on with my day. My life had always revolved around other things. Medicine. Church. Writing when I could. The long, demanding process of becoming a doctor had trained my mind to focus on textbooks, case presentations, and exam reviewers more than anything else.

But then one afternoon my wife sent me a song.

“Pantropiko.”

The song had already gone viral by that point. People were dancing to it online, clips were circulating everywhere, and it was becoming difficult to ignore. My wife sent it casually, the way couples often send things to each other when they stumble upon something fun.

I remember where I was when I first listened to it. I was inside the small apartment we had rented, surrounded by my notes while studying for the Physician Licensure Examination. My desk was cluttered with reviewers, mnemonics, and half-finished outlines of diseases and drug dosages. In the middle of that academic chaos, I clicked play.

Something about the song stayed with me.

Soon after, I began listening to more songs by BINI. What started as curiosity slowly became a habit. Their performances were energetic, their songs were bright, and the group carried a kind of joy that was difficult not to notice. Before long I found myself watching their performances on YouTube and replaying their songs on Spotify during breaks from studying.

Then ALAMAT entered my orbit.

I think the first bridge between the two groups for me was the music video for “Maharani,” where BINI’s Jhoanna appeared. That connection made me curious enough to explore ALAMAT’s music, and once I did, I was immediately drawn to their sound. Their songs carried a strong Filipino flavor, blending different local languages and cultural elements in ways that felt both rooted and modern. There was something about their identity as a group that felt intentional.

Then I heard “ILY ILY.”

That song stayed with me in a deeper way. Perhaps it was the warmth of the melody, or the quiet sincerity in the lyrics. I cannot explain it completely, but it quickly became one of the songs I returned to again and again.

From that point on, music became part of my routine.

A typical day during that time was simple. I would go to work, commute home, and listen to music along the way. At night I would talk to my wife, eat dinner, scroll through fan conversations online, and then listen to more music before going to sleep.

Sometimes I would replay three or four albums in a single day.

Most of the time I listened through Spotify, though I occasionally switched to Apple Music because the sound quality felt richer to my ears. When I wanted to watch the choreography or performances, I would open YouTube and replay the music videos.

The songs followed me everywhere.

They played during short breaks at work. They accompanied long bus rides. They filled quiet walks downtown when I stepped out to buy small groceries before heading back home.

There were a few songs I always returned to.

“Wag Muna Tayong Umuwi.”
“ILY ILY.”
“KAYA.”
“Boomerang.”
“Don’t Play.”

Sometimes they started my day. Sometimes they closed it.

After long hours speaking with patients, when my throat felt dry and my body carried the exhaustion of the commute home, those songs gave me a few moments of quiet relief. The world slowed down for a while.

Looking back now, I realize that music gave me two things during that season of my life.

Comfort.

And community.

I had not expected either of them.

The Community That Came With the Songs

One of the things I did not expect when I first began listening to P-Pop was how quickly it would lead me to people.

At first it was simply music playing through my earphones while I worked, commuted, or rested. But eventually curiosity led me to the spaces where fans gathered. Social media conversations, fan posts, reaction threads, and shared excitement about new releases slowly became part of my daily routine.

It felt strangely familiar.

For years, most of my social circles had been built around two things: medicine and church. My closest friends were usually fellow healthcare workers, classmates, or people I served with in ministry. Those were communities shaped by shared responsibilities and similar life paths.

Fandom was different.

Here were people from different professions, different places, and different stages of life, all drawn together by something simple: music they loved.

Through BINI, I began encountering the BLOOMS fandom. Through ALAMAT, I found the Magiliw community. Later, through KAIA, I came across the ZAIAs. Each group had its own culture and inside jokes, but what stood out to me most was how welcoming many of them were.

Many of the people I interacted with were artists, writers, students, and fellow professionals who simply found joy in supporting Filipino music. Some were healthcare workers like me. Others were people whose work I admired long before we ever exchanged messages online.

For someone whose wife was living continents away at the time, and whose closest friends were scattered across busy careers, these conversations filled an unexpected space in my life.

They reminded me that community can appear in places we never planned to look.

Eventually, the music did something else for me.

It made me write again in a different way.

On October 14, 2024, I published my first P-Pop blog post. I titled it From Doomer to BLOOMer: My Unexpected Journey into the World of P-Pop. At the time, I thought of it as a simple reflection on how unexpectedly I had fallen into this new musical world.

I did not expect much from it.

But the response came quickly.

Fans began sharing the post across social media. Larger fan accounts reposted it. Conversations started forming around it. Some readers messaged me to say that they felt the same way—that they had also discovered something hopeful through these artists and their music.

For someone who had always wanted to be a writer who could reach readers meaningfully, that moment felt quietly affirming.

I remember feeling proud, not only because people were reading the piece, but because the subject itself mattered to me. Writing about medicine had always been part of my identity, but writing about music allowed a different side of my mind to work.

Medicine trained me to analyze, diagnose, and explain.

Writing about music allowed me to reflect, interpret, and feel.

The two passions existed side by side in my life, though they played very different roles. If I had to stop writing about music someday, I knew I would survive. But medicine had become something deeper than a profession. Even if my abilities failed me one day, I felt certain that I would never truly stop thinking like a doctor.

Still, during that season, writing about P-Pop became a source of genuine excitement.

To my surprise, some of the artists themselves eventually encountered my later posts. Knowing that the people behind the songs had taken time to read my words felt surreal. I never imagined that something written late at night on my small blog would reach the artists whose music had been accompanying my daily routine.

It made the entire experience feel more real.

Looking back now, I realize that the fandom season of my life was about more than simply enjoying music.

It was about connection.

It was about discovering that Filipino artists were creating something vibrant and evolving. It was about seeing communities of fans rally behind them with genuine enthusiasm. And for a while, it gave me a sense that I was participating, in my own small way, in a cultural moment that felt hopeful.

Music had opened a door.

Behind that door were people.

And for a time, that was enough.

When the Songs Followed Me to Canada

When I arrived in Canada in March 2025, the music came with me.

Immigration is often described as a fresh start. People talk about it in hopeful terms: new opportunities, new landscapes, a better future waiting just beyond the horizon. But anyone who has gone through it knows that the beginning rarely feels like that.

The first months are mostly adjustment.

New streets. New weather. New routines that do not yet feel like routines. In Edmonton, even the ordinary act of walking through a neighborhood felt unfamiliar at first. The people I saw every day were strangers. The rhythm of the city was different from anything I had known before.

But music helped soften the transition.

In those early weeks, P-Pop continued to fill my days the same way it had before. When I brought my wife to work in the morning, I would often walk or take the bus home with my earphones on. The songs followed me through the streets, through downtown sidewalks, through small grocery trips before heading back to the apartment.

It felt like bringing a small piece of home into a place that still felt foreign.

Sometimes I would wander through the city a little longer than necessary, letting the songs stretch the walk. Even something as simple as buying groceries and walking back home felt easier when there was music in the background.

Certain songs felt different now that I was living abroad.

“ILY ILY,” for example, carried a heavier emotional weight than before. Listening to it reminded me of the many people I knew whose lives were shaped by distance—families separated by oceans, relationships sustained through video calls, parents and children living in different countries because work demanded it.

I understood that story more deeply now.

For a while, music and faith became two of the quiet anchors of my transition. Rediscovering a faith community in the city helped give my weeks a sense of structure, and P-Pop filled the spaces in between.

But reality eventually has a way of asserting itself.

After about three months, the situation I had hoped would resolve quickly began to weigh more heavily on me.

I was still unemployed.

Every day started to look the same. I would wake up early, cook breakfast, and help prepare my wife’s things before bringing her to work. Then I would return home and open my laptop.

Indeed.

LinkedIn.

Email.

Applications.

Waiting.

Some days I attended free review classes while preparing for the exams required for doctors trained outside Canada. Other days I spent hours searching through job postings, adjusting resumes, and refreshing pages that rarely showed anything new.

By the afternoon my energy was often gone.

Instead of exploring the city the way I had in the beginning, I found myself sitting at home, scrolling through job listings or staring at the same open tabs. The excitement of discovering a new country slowly gave way to something quieter and heavier.

Worry.

One thought returned to me more often than I wanted to admit.

I am failing my wife.

She was working every day while I lived in a strange in-between state. I was studying, applying, waiting, trying to move forward, but the days sometimes felt like they were slipping by without visible progress. It created a kind of pressure that quietly sat in the background of everything I did.

And slowly, almost without me noticing it at first, the music began to fade.

It did not disappear overnight.

The songs were still there in the background sometimes, playing through the speakers while I looked through job listings. But I realized that I was no longer really listening. The melodies passed through the room without leaving much behind.

Eventually I stopped turning them on.

Not because I stopped loving them.

But because it felt strange to play music that I could no longer appreciate the way I used to.

When survival begins to occupy most of your attention, art sometimes becomes difficult to receive.

The songs were still beautiful.

But my mind was somewhere else.

Watching From the Side

It took me a while to realize that something had quietly changed.

For months, music had been woven into almost every part of my daily routine. The songs played during commutes, work breaks, grocery runs, and late evenings when the day finally slowed down. Even writing about P-Pop had become a natural extension of that routine. It felt like I was participating in something larger than myself, a growing movement of Filipino artists and fans celebrating music that was beginning to reach wider audiences.

Then, slowly, the routine shifted.

The playlists stopped updating.
The earphones stayed in my pocket more often.
The blog posts became less frequent.

Nothing dramatic happened. There was no clear moment when I decided to step away from music. Life simply demanded more attention elsewhere.

When most of your energy goes into survival—finding work, studying again, worrying about finances—it becomes harder to receive art the way you once did. Songs that used to feel comforting began to play in the background without fully reaching me. Eventually I stopped pressing play altogether.

Still, the world of P-Pop continued moving forward.

I would catch glimpses of it the way someone sees distant fireworks through a window—beautiful, but slightly removed from where they stood.

One evening I was sitting on the sofa with my wife, the television playing softly in the background. I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw a repost from someone I follow: Jhoanna’s mother.

The post announced that BINI would be performing at Coachella.

For a moment I simply stared at the screen.

Then I smiled.

It felt less like the excitement of a fan screaming at a headline and more like the quiet pride of an older brother watching his younger sisters achieve something extraordinary. I imagined the countless Filipino artists who had dreamed of standing on international stages and the long road it had taken for any of them to arrive there.

Seeing BINI reach that point felt like watching a door open.

Not just for them, but for the future of Filipino music.

I felt proud in a way that surprised me.

Later, when ALAMAT released their new album, I did not listen to it immediately. I wanted to wait until I had a moment when my mind was calm enough to appreciate it properly. By then their single “LuzViMinda” was already circulating everywhere, and the excitement around the release was hard to miss.

When I finally sat down to listen, one thought stayed with me.

They had grown.

The sound felt more confident. The group felt stronger. And as I watched fans celebrating the release online, I realized something else as well.

I was not as present in those conversations anymore.

Part of me felt a small hint of what people now call FOMO—the fear of missing out. There had been a time when I was deeply immersed in those discussions, sharing thoughts about new songs, interacting with fans, and writing about the artists with genuine excitement.

Now I was mostly watching from the sidelines.

But strangely, the feeling was not entirely sad.

There was also a quiet sense of satisfaction. Even if I no longer participated as actively as before, I had still experienced that season of fandom fully. I had listened closely, written about the music, and shared in the enthusiasm of a community that believed deeply in these artists.

In some small way, perhaps my writing had helped others discover them too.

I do not know if that impact was large or small. But the thought itself felt enough.

And when I later saw announcements about G22’s upcoming concert, or when my wife and I found ourselves watching SB19 performances together on television, I realized that the admiration had never truly disappeared.

Sometimes we would watch a video and simply sit there afterward, mouths slightly open, amazed at the level of talent on the screen.

The music was still there.

The difference was that life had changed the way I listened.

The Music Is Still There

For a while I wondered if stepping away from the music meant that I had somehow left that part of my life behind.

When routines change, it is easy to interpret the silence as an ending. The songs that once filled every day are no longer playing. The conversations that used to appear on your screen move on without you. The communities that once felt like daily companions continue their lives at a distance.

It can feel like you have quietly walked away from something you once cared deeply about.

But the longer I reflected on it, the more I realized that this was not really what had happened.

Life had simply rearranged my attention.

There are seasons when art occupies a large part of our lives. During those moments, music feels like oxygen. It helps us process long days, loneliness, distance, or uncertainty. Sometimes it becomes the background to important chapters of our lives without us even noticing.

Then there are seasons when survival takes priority.

Immigration, job hunting, financial worries, and the responsibility of building a life in a new country demand a different kind of focus. In those moments, the mind becomes practical. The days revolve around applications, schedules, plans, and small steps forward.

Art does not disappear in those seasons.

But it sometimes becomes quieter.

Looking back now, I realize that the months when P-Pop filled my days were not wasted time or a distraction from my responsibilities. If anything, they gave me something valuable during a period when many parts of my life felt uncertain.

They gave me comfort during long commutes.

They gave me community during a time when my wife and I lived on different continents.

They reminded me that Filipino artists were building something vibrant and worth celebrating.

And perhaps most importantly, they reminded me that joy can appear in unexpected places.

Today my life looks different.

The routines are more practical now. My days involve studying again, searching for opportunities, and slowly rebuilding my professional path in a new country. The concerns that occupy my mind are often more immediate than the release of a new song or the excitement of a fandom conversation.

But the music has not disappeared.

Sometimes I still listen when I have the chance. When ALAMAT released their new songs, I waited until I had the right moment to sit down and appreciate them. When I heard that BINI would perform at Coachella, I felt proud in a way that surprised me. When my wife and I watch performances by SB19, we still find ourselves amazed by their talent.

Those reactions remind me that the connection is still there.

It is simply quieter now.

And I think that is alright.

Fandom, like many things in life, moves in seasons. There are moments when we are deeply immersed in it, celebrating every release, following every update, and participating in every conversation. Then there are moments when life asks us to step back for a while.

Stepping back does not mean the appreciation disappears.

It simply means the music waits.

Sometimes, when I think about the future, I imagine a small and simple scene.

I am at home here in Canada. My guitar rests on my lap, the way it used to when music was part of my everyday life as a worship leader. I try playing the chords of a P-Pop song I once listened to constantly during my early days as a new doctor.

Maybe I will remember the lyrics. Maybe I will have to look them up again.

After a while my hands will get tired, the way they always do when I have not practiced in a long time. I will set the guitar down, turn on the television, and see the same groups whose songs once accompanied my commutes and quiet evenings.

By then they will probably be even bigger than they are today.

More stages.
More fans.
More stories.

And I will sit there watching, feeling something simple and steady.

Not the frantic excitement of someone chasing every update.

But the quiet happiness of someone who once walked beside that music for a while, during a season when he needed it most.

Sometimes life gets louder than the songs we love.

But the songs remain.

Waiting for us to return when the noise softens again.

There are things people say to you that never leave.

Not because they were loud. Not because they were cruel.

But because they came at the worst moment—when you were holding on to your last bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, things could end gently.

You try. You reach out. You go out of your way to soften the goodbye. You think maybe this time they’ll see your effort, not just your condition.

Then they say something like,
“You only care about your depression.”

And suddenly, the air gets pulled out of the room.

You don’t even have the strength to respond.

Because that’s not just a comment—it’s a dismissal. A rewriting of the years you spent quietly suffering. The nights you didn’t sleep. The days you did your best just to function. The fact that you even reached out in the first place.

It takes one sentence to undo all of that.

You stand there, silent. Maybe furious. Maybe tired.
You leave, and nothing gets repaired.

That’s the version of the story no one tells.

Sometimes I think about this strange pressure we put on people who are struggling—to still be emotionally available, empathetic, understanding. To always give, even when they’re empty.

And if they can’t?
If they slip or disconnect or just survive?

We call them selfish.

I’ve spent so many hours wondering if I was.

Wondering if I failed to love well. If my sadness made me blind. If my silence hurt others more than I realized.

I’ve replayed those final conversations more times than I’d like to admit.

And still, even now, I don’t know the full answer.

But I know this:

I wasn’t heartless.

I was hurting.

And I did try.

What Depression Isn’t

Depression isn’t a card you play.

It’s not a shield you hide behind. It’s not an excuse, not a script, not a reason to avoid caring about others.

It’s not the absence of love.

Most days, it’s the presence of too much.

Too much weight. Too much noise in your head. Too many thoughts you can’t explain to people who think sadness is something you just shake off.

People forget that.

They think you’re being dramatic. Or lazy. Or, worse, self-centered.

They think that if you’re too tired to call, you don’t care. If you go quiet for a while, you must be angry. If you don’t show up to family gatherings, you’re avoiding them on purpose.

What they don’t see are the dozens of times you rehearsed what to say. The messages you drafted and deleted. The questions you’ve asked yourself that sound like:

“Am I a bad child?”
“Am I only ever sad around them?”
“Am I just too much to love?”

Depression is not a lack of care. It’s a body and brain that sometimes make it nearly impossible to show that care in the ways people expect.

Some days you’re just trying not to disappear.
And on those days, trying is everything.

But when you’re told that your trying wasn’t enough—or worse, that it wasn’t even seen—it cuts deeper than anything else.

Because it confirms the very fear that depression whispers to you all the time:

“You’re the problem.”

And that’s the part that’s hard to explain to people who have never felt this kind of hollow. They think it’s pride. Or moodiness. Or stubbornness.

They don’t know how often you’ve begged yourself to “be better.”

Or how many mornings you’ve forced yourself out of bed for them—because you didn’t want them to worry, or judge, or lose hope in you again.

It was never indifference.
It was exhaustion.

And honestly, you were just surviving the only way you knew how.

To Those Who’ve Been Told They Don’t Care

Maybe someone told you that your sadness made you selfish.

That your breakdowns were unfair.
That you only ever thought of yourself.

Maybe it came from someone you loved. Or still love.
Maybe it happened during a fight.
Or in a soft voice that made it worse because you couldn’t tell if it was pity or blame.

Whatever the case, it stayed with you.

You’ve probably questioned it more than once.
Maybe you even started to believe it.

Started wondering if your depression really did make you incapable of love. If your silence meant guilt. If your boundaries were actually coldness. If your need for space was abandonment.

You’ve tried so hard to explain.

But sometimes there’s no space to explain things to people who only hear pain when it’s loud—when it cries, shouts, storms out, or explodes.

They don’t recognize the quieter version of pain.

The one that’s careful.
Measured.
Trying not to break anything else because it’s already breaking inside you.

So if you’ve ever been accused of not caring—

Just because you were hurting, or tired, or healing slowly—
I need you to hear this clearly:

That accusation is not your whole story.

You were doing what you could with what you had.

You were trying, even when they didn’t see it.

You are not heartless.
You are not a burden.
And you are not wrong for needing care, too.

The Guilt You Don’t Owe

There’s a kind of guilt that clings even after you’ve apologized.

Even after you’ve said everything you could.

Even after you’ve cried in private, wondering if there’s something wrong with the way you love, or speak, or feel.

This guilt doesn’t come from wrongdoing.
It comes from being misunderstood.

From people who expected a version of you that could keep performing, keep pleasing, keep pretending everything was okay—even when it wasn’t.

So you start thinking,

“Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.”
“Maybe I should’ve said it differently.”
“Maybe my sadness did hurt them too much.”

But that kind of thinking only spirals.

Because no matter what you tell yourself, you can’t rewrite someone else’s refusal to see your pain.

You can’t fix how someone processed your illness, or your silence, or your exhaustion.
You can’t undo their conclusions.

And you shouldn’t have to carry shame for surviving.

You were not the villain for being tired.
You were not selfish for breaking down.
You were not inconsiderate for needing help, even if others needed help too.

You were human.
And being human—especially a hurting one—doesn’t make you wrong.

A Slow Kind of Hope

Some relationships never get repaired.
Some goodbyes stay sharp.
Some words never get taken back.

I used to think closure came from conversation.
From the other person finally understanding.

But sometimes healing has to happen without an apology.
Without a reunion.
Without anyone admitting they hurt you.

Sometimes healing just looks like this:

Waking up and remembering it less.

Getting through the day without shrinking into guilt.

Letting go of the version of yourself that always had to prove they were worthy of love.

I don’t know where you are in your journey.

Maybe you’ve been quiet for years.
Maybe you’re just now realizing that what they said wasn’t fair.
Maybe you’re still trying to forgive yourself for something that wasn’t even your fault.

That’s okay.

You’re allowed to still be figuring it out.

You’re allowed to move slowly.
To build peace in small ways.

You don’t have to rush toward reconciliation.
You don’t have to explain everything again.

Sometimes hope just starts with this:

Believing that even if they never understand you—
you can still understand yourself.

And that can be enough.

A viral post claims there’s “no evidence that depression is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain.” While the 2022 study cited does challenge the old serotonin theory, it does not mean depression isn’t real, that antidepressants don’t work, or that treatment is unnecessary. Mental health is complex, and reducing it to clickbait harms real people. Let’s break it down — with evidence, context, and care.

Introduction: The Viral Post and Its Impact

You’ve probably seen it by now.

A striking image of brain scans, followed by bold text:

“Study finds no evidence that depression is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain.”

It’s gone viral — shared across Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, and even TikTok. The original version credits Hashem Al-Ghaili / Science Nature Page, and it’s framed as a kind of scientific revelation. Some people react with relief. Others with anger. Many just scroll by thinking, “So… antidepressants were a lie?”

As someone who has personally taken antidepressants and experienced real milestones because of them, I find this post careless. Not because the study is invalid — we’ll get to that — but because posts like this are being spread without context, disclaimers, or nuance. That’s dangerous.

Especially in places where mental health stigma already runs deep.

Especially when we know that compliance to psychiatric treatment depends a lot on how people perceive its value.

And especially when lives are literally at stake.

Where Did the “Chemical Imbalance” Theory Come From?

Let’s rewind a bit.

The idea that depression is caused by a chemical imbalance — particularly a shortage of serotonin — started gaining traction in the 1960s and 70s. It wasn’t a single discovery. It was a combination of early drug trials, lab animal studies, and emerging neuroscience that led researchers to suspect a connection between mood and brain chemistry.

Then came the antidepressants.

Drugs like fluoxetine (Prozac) worked by increasing serotonin levels in the brain. Patients felt better. Naturally, people — and pharma companies — connected the dots: if boosting serotonin helped relieve symptoms, maybe low serotonin was the cause of depression in the first place.

The “chemical imbalance” theory was never formally proven, but it became a useful shorthand. Pharmaceutical ads in the 1990s ran with it. So did some well-meaning clinicians. It was easier to explain than the complex web of biology, psychology, and life events that actually drive mental illness.

But that oversimplification stuck.

And decades later, we’re now seeing a public correction — one that’s long overdue, but incomplete when taken at face value.

What the 2022 Study Actually Found

Here’s where the viral post pulls its core claim.

In 2022, a group of researchers led by psychiatrist Dr. Joanna Moncrieff published an umbrella review (a type of meta-analysis of meta-analyses) in the journal Molecular Psychiatry. Their goal? To evaluate all major lines of evidence behind the serotonin theory of depression.

They looked at:

• Studies on serotonin levels in blood and cerebrospinal fluid
• Serotonin receptor activity
• The serotonin transporter gene (SERT)
• Effects of artificially depleting serotonin
• Links between serotonin and stress

Their conclusion?

“There is no consistent evidence of an association between serotonin and depression, and no support for the hypothesis that depression is caused by lowered serotonin activity or concentrations.”[cm_simple_footnote id=1]

Sounds definitive, right?

But here’s the thing: this wasn’t new to most psychiatrists.

The authors themselves emphasized that they weren’t saying antidepressants don’t work or that brain chemistry isn’t involved at all — just that the serotonin hypothesis doesn’t hold up as a standalone cause of depression.

What This Means — and What It Doesn’t

So now we know: the “chemical imbalance” theory, especially the serotonin version, doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

But here’s what it doesn’t mean:

• It doesn’t mean depression isn’t real.
• It doesn’t mean antidepressants don’t work.
• It doesn’t mean we should stop all treatment.
• It definitely doesn’t mean you’ve been “lied to” by your doctor.

What the Moncrieff study tells us is that depression can’t be reduced to one neurotransmitter. That’s not new in psychiatry — many professionals have already moved on from that model. But most people outside the field haven’t. So when a post says “no evidence of chemical imbalance,” it sounds like a mic drop, when in reality it’s more like a course correction.

Here’s the better way to put it:

“Depression is not caused solely by a serotonin deficiency. It is a complex condition with biological, psychological, and social roots. Serotonin may still be involved, but not as the whole story.”

Simple? No. Accurate? Much closer.

Why Oversimplification Is Harmful

The problem with viral science posts is they often skip the nuance.

This one, in particular, risks sending the message that chemical-based treatments are invalid — or worse, that people taking antidepressants have been tricked. That’s not just wrong. It’s harmful.

I’ve been on antidepressants before. I’ve felt the difference they made — not immediately, not magically, but meaningfully. It was part of a broader recovery plan. And seeing that progress dismissed by a social media post, years after the original study came out? It feels careless. Irresponsible. Unsafe.

When you’re struggling with your mental health, you’re already vulnerable. You don’t need your only lifelines questioned by people who haven’t read the footnotes.

Worse, this kind of oversimplified framing can:

• Encourage people to stop taking medications without medical guidance
• Reinforce stigma: “You’re not sick; you’re just weak.”
• Push people away from evidence-based care
• Make already hesitant patients more distrustful of their doctors

If we’re going to challenge old models, we need to do it with care — not clickbait.

My Personal Take — and Why This Matters

Let me be honest.

When I first saw that viral post — “no evidence of chemical imbalance” — my gut reaction wasn’t intellectual. It was emotional.

I’ve been on antidepressants. I’ve had days where I needed them just to get out of bed. Not because I was weak. Not because I believed in serotonin like a religion. But because I was surviving. Climbing back, slowly, from somewhere I didn’t think I’d return from.

And seeing that work — that healing — brushed off as if it was some outdated myth?

It stung.

That’s why I care so much about how this information is presented. Not because I disagree with the research — I actually think the Moncrieff study is important. It pushes psychiatry forward. But what worries me is how late this post went viral, how stripped of nuance it is, and how many people are seeing it without any context. It’s not just a science update. It’s a public health risk.

Mental health already lives in the shadows for so many people. We don’t need to make it harder to reach out. We don’t need more reasons to be skeptical of help.

If anything, we need more compassion, not less.

What Causes Depression, Then? A Broader Look

So if depression isn’t just a serotonin issue, what causes it?

That’s the big question — and the honest answer is: it’s complicated.

Here’s what current research suggests:

1. Biological Factors

• Genetics: Depression can run in families, suggesting a heritable risk.
• Brain structure and function: Changes in the hippocampus, prefrontal cortex, and amygdala are associated with depressive symptoms[cm_simple_footnote id=2].
• Neurotransmitters: Serotonin, yes — but also dopamine, norepinephrine, GABA, and glutamate all seem to play a role[cm_simple_footnote id=3].
• Hormonal imbalances: Cortisol (the stress hormone), thyroid dysfunction, and even inflammation have all been linked to depression.

2. Psychological Factors

• Negative thinking patterns, learned helplessness, and trauma can set the stage for depression.
• Early life adversity — such as abuse, neglect, or loss — can change how the brain responds to stress[cm_simple_footnote id=4].

3. Social and Environmental Factors

• Poverty, isolation, discrimination, chronic illness, and even global crises like the COVID-19 pandemic have all been linked to increased depression rates[cm_simple_footnote id=5].

So yes, brain chemistry is part of it — but it’s shaped by everything around and within us. To say it’s “just” about chemicals misses the point. To say it’s not about chemicals at all is equally misleading.

It’s not either/or. It’s both/and.

So… Do Antidepressants Work?

Here’s the million-peso question.

If depression isn’t caused by a simple chemical imbalance, do medications that alter brain chemistry still work?

Short answer: yes — for many people, they do.

Longer answer: it’s complicated, but hopeful.

Antidepressants like SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) and SNRIs (serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors) don’t just flood the brain with chemicals. They modulate brain circuits, change the way we respond to stress, and may even promote neuroplasticity — the brain’s ability to form new connections[cm_simple_footnote id=6].

They don’t work for everyone. And they’re not always enough on their own. But research shows that:

• About 40–60% of patients respond to first-line antidepressants within 6–8 weeks[cm_simple_footnote id=7].
• Antidepressants are more effective when combined with therapy, especially cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT).
• Their effectiveness varies depending on severity — they tend to help more in moderate to severe cases, less in mild cases[cm_simple_footnote id=8].

They’re not magic pills. But they’re tools. And for many people — myself included — they’re a turning point.

What’s more, newer antidepressants are being developed with different mechanisms: some targeting glutamate (like ketamine), others working on inflammation. This reflects a growing understanding that mental illness is not one-size-fits-all.

So no, SSRIs weren’t a scam. They were a starting point. And for millions of patients worldwide, still an important one.

Treatment Still Matters — Here’s Why

Here’s the bottom line: whether or not serotonin is the main player, depression needs to be treated.

The global burden of depression is staggering — it’s one of the leading causes of disability worldwide[cm_simple_footnote id=9]. Untreated, it can affect:

• Sleep
• Appetite
• Focus
• Work
• Relationships
• And yes, even lead to suicide

We can’t afford to let misinformation distract us from the reality of suffering — or from the tools that exist to help.

Treatment today is more flexible than ever. Options include:

• Medications, from first-line SSRIs to newer formulations
• Therapies, like CBT, ACT, EMDR, or interpersonal therapy
• Lifestyle interventions, including sleep hygiene, exercise, and nutrition
• Peer support, group therapy, or community-based mental health programs
• Emerging treatments, such as psychedelics, digital interventions, and rTMS

It’s not about one perfect cure. It’s about building a care plan that fits you.

And if antidepressants are part of that plan? That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you proactive.

The Real Risk of Posts Like This Going Viral

At first glance, it might seem harmless.

It’s just an infographic, right? A fun science fact for people to share?

But when posts like “there’s no evidence depression is caused by a chemical imbalance” go viral without context, they don’t just inform — they confuse. And confusion, when it comes to mental health, can be dangerous.

Here’s why:

• People in treatment may feel duped and stop taking their medication abruptly.
• Skeptical family members might use this to shame their loved ones.
• Online trolls will weaponize it to reinforce the old narrative: that depression is “just in your head” and doesn’t need care.
• Doctors and therapists might struggle more to explain the role of medication to already hesitant patients.

We’ve fought so hard for mental health awareness — for the language, access, and visibility people need. One post shouldn’t undo that progress. And yet, it often does.

Information spreads fast. Clarification doesn’t.

So let’s be careful about what we amplify. Let’s demand better science communication — the kind that respects both truth and the people living with it.

Call to Action

If you saw that post and felt shaken — I get it.

If you’re on antidepressants and now questioning everything — I get that too.

Here’s what I want you to know:

You’re not broken.
You’re not naïve.
You’re not wrong for needing help.

Depression is not just a chemical glitch. But neither is it just “in your head.” It’s a whole-body, whole-life condition — one that deserves care, evidence, and empathy.

So if you’re struggling, don’t let a viral post be your final word. Talk to your doctor. Revisit your care plan. Ask questions. Stay open.

And if you’re someone who shares mental health content — take time to read before you repost.

The people reading need more than headlines.

They need hope.

But the pavement lies.

Sometimes it splits
without warning,
like someone forgot to finish the blueprint.
Sometimes it rises, cracked,
like it’s tired of holding everyone’s weight.

And me?
I came with shoes laced for speed,
heart trained for the final lap,
told by teachers, parents, pastors—
just follow the path,
just keep your head down,
just trust the signs.

But the signs change.

One day it says “merge.”
Next day, “dead end.”
Then a kid with a marker rewrites it to say
“you’ll never make it.”

I’ve seen roads where the asphalt peels like skin.
Where people trip, fall,
pretend they didn’t.
Get up. Laugh.
Bleed quietly into their socks.

Expectations don’t always tell you
the road can flood.
That sometimes you build a map,
only for the city to reroute it overnight.

They say success is a highway.
Fast. Loud. Glorious.

But I’ve found more truth
in the silence of narrow alleys.
In the feel of my soles
against gravel.

I expected shortcuts.
Got detours.

Expected green lights.
Got intersections with blinking yellows,
and no one to tell me
if it’s my turn to go.

Some friends flew past.
Engines roaring.
I waved.

Others stalled.
I stayed.
Held their hand while the world honked behind us.

And in those moments,
I realized—

maybe the road isn’t built to serve my pace.
Maybe the road doesn’t care.

But my feet?

They still move.

Even when the pavement cracks,
even when the stripes fade,
even when I’m not sure
if this path leads home or nowhere at all.

I walk.

Not because I’m sure,
but because I can.

And sometimes that’s enough
to lay down
the next stone.

Let’s be honest: I’ve always had it.

Even before I knew what to call it, I’ve always formed strange attachments to people on screen, in music videos, in books. Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up introverted with a loud imagination—you start filling in the silence with scenes, reactions, imagined conversations. Not fantasies. Not delusions. Just… presence. Someone you root for. Someone who feels like they’re rooting back.

And I know I’m not alone in this.

The first time I became fully aware that this might be something more than just “liking someone on TV” was during the AlDub phenomenon. Yes, I’m cringing as I write that. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pull me in. Not romantically. It wasn’t about kilig, at least not for me. It was about watching something build itself before your eyes—two strangers, slowly becoming part of people’s lives, including mine. There was this deep sense of shared energy, of collective joy. It felt real.

And that feeling came back stronger when I entered the world of P-Pop.

At first, I didn’t get it. Why do K-Pop and J-Pop fans act like they personally know their idols? Why do MNL48 supporters go so far? I didn’t mock them—I just didn’t get it.

Until I dived into BINI.

I wasn’t attracted to them. I wasn’t daydreaming about relationships or fanservice moments. Instead, something else happened—I started feeling like an older brother. Protective. Supportive. As if I was cheering for a younger sibling taking center stage. I found myself wanting to defend them online. To explain them to outsiders. To support them, because I saw how hard they worked.

It didn’t stop there. With every new group I followed—ALAMAT, KAIA, more—I felt like my family was growing. And when idols would reply to comments or thank fans directly, that feeling deepened. Their words reached thousands, but somehow, I still felt seen.

Of course, I know the truth.
They don’t know me.
But I still care.

This kind of connection has a name.

Psychologists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl coined the term parasocial interaction in 1956 to describe the one-sided relationships audiences form with media figures who appear real and intimate but are ultimately inaccessible.

It used to be about TV anchors and actors. Now, it’s livestreams, vlogs, fan signs, and surprise Twitter replies. The illusion of closeness has never been more convincing.

And for fans like me—especially those who’ve felt isolated, misunderstood, or emotionally stretched—these connections can provide real comfort.

I’ve had seasons where I felt completely alone. Friends were busy. My wife and I were in a long-distance setup with a huge time difference. Life was heavy. But being part of BLOOM or Magiliw or ZAIA gave me something to wake up for. Something to smile about. Even just replying to a tweet, or watching a behind-the-scenes video, made the days feel less empty.

This is what people often miss when they talk about parasocial relationships. They think it’s just obsession or delusion. They forget how many people are surviving lonely realities. They forget that emotional connection—even if one-sided—can feel real.

Of course, it’s not always healthy. And yes, some fans go too far. But to say it’s “not real” just because it’s not mutual… misses the point.

Sometimes the bond lives in the space between you and the screen.
And sometimes, that’s enough.

What Is a Parasocial Relationship?

You probably know the feeling.

You follow an artist’s every move.
You know their favorite color, their fears, the inside jokes from that one livestream.
You celebrate their wins. You get hurt when they get bashed.
You feel like you know them.

But they don’t know you.

That’s what a parasocial relationship is.
A one-sided emotional connection between a fan and a public figure.

It doesn’t have to be romantic. It’s not fantasy. It’s not always unhealthy.
Sometimes, it’s just the mind doing what it naturally does—forming bonds with people who show up regularly in your emotional space.

In a 2021 study, researchers observed that social media increased parasocial intensity, because it simulates real interaction. Fans comment. Artists reply. Sometimes with just a “❤️,” but that’s enough to trigger emotional reciprocity in the fan’s brain.

You know it’s not a conversation. But it still feels like one.

And for artists, there’s pressure to maintain that closeness—to stay visible, responsive, and “relatable.” That’s what we call fanservice, and it plays a key role in deepening these bonds. It’s not manipulation. Often, it’s sincere. But it does blur the line between idol and friend.

In K-Pop and J-Pop, this setup is part of the business model.
The idea isn’t just to love the group—you’re supposed to choose your bias.
Know their birthdays. Save for fan signs. Follow fancams.
You’re not just watching them. You’re with them.

And slowly, your fandom starts to feel like a relationship.

That’s what happened to me.
Not all at once, but gradually.

First, I felt like an older brother. I wasn’t crushing—I was protecting.
Then, I felt like someone who understood them. Not just the songs, but the cultural weight they carried.
Finally, I felt like a witness to something unfolding—like I was watching someone bloom, and it mattered.

I wasn’t imagining things. But I was emotionally attached.

That’s a parasocial bond.
And again, it doesn’t have to be toxic.

The question is: what do you do with that bond?
That’s where the real discussion begins.

The Good It Can Do

People talk a lot about the dangers of parasocial relationships.
And they’re right to—some fans cross lines they shouldn’t.
But that’s not the whole story.

What gets overlooked is how often these one-sided connections quietly save people.
Not in dramatic, cinematic ways. But in the day-to-day.
In the silence.
In the ordinary.

I’ve lived through days when I barely had the energy to talk to anyone.

Friends were busy. My wife and I were trying to manage a time zone twelve hours apart.
And sometimes, you don’t need deep conversations. You just need a familiar face.

So I stayed.
Watching comeback stages.
Reading translations.
Replying to threads.
Not always for interaction—but for comfort.

In a 2023 study published in Human Communication Research, researchers found that parasocial relationships can serve as psychological support systems, especially for those experiencing social isolation or emotional stress. They aren’t a replacement for therapy or real-world connection—but they can help bridge the gap.

And that’s what they did for me.

I wasn’t imagining the connection. I was just responding to what was offered—passion, presence, energy.
P-Pop artists poured hours into rehearsals, content, and performances.
Supporting them felt like returning the favor.

It’s not just emotional, either.

Parasocial bonds often lead to motivation.
Seeing artists work hard—even while under pressure—can light a fire in fans.

I’ve seen it in fandom spaces.
A BLOOM studying all night while replaying “Karera.”
A Magiliw who starts learning Hiligaynon just to understand a lyric.
A ZAIA member who starts making fan art and discovers their own creativity in the process.

There’s even research behind it.
A 2020 study in Psychology of Popular Media Culture noted that parasocial relationships with admired figures often lead to goal-setting behavior, especially among youth and young adults.

So no—it’s not “just in your head” when you say your idol made you want to do better.
They probably did.

And then there’s community.

This might be my favorite part.
Parasocial bonds may begin alone, but they rarely stay that way.

When you follow an artist deeply, you eventually find others who feel the same.
Suddenly, you’re not just replying to a tweet.
You’re in a group chat.
You’re attending events.
You’re working on birthday projects.
You’re learning Canva because someone needs help with layout.

You’re part of something.

That’s not fake. That’s real life forming around a shared feeling.

And for someone who’s been through loneliness—someone like me—that feeling of shared purpose can mean everything.

I’ve made friends through fan circles I wouldn’t have met otherwise.
Some just acquaintances. Some even felt like family.
And I never would’ve known them if I didn’t care deeply about a group of artists I’ve never knew in person.

Strange? Yes.
But also kind of beautiful.

Parasocial bonds are not a substitute for real relationships.
But sometimes, they lead you to one.
And sometimes, they carry you until you can make one.

And in that way, I think they’re worth defending.

When It Goes Too Far

There’s a line.
You may not always see it—but you feel it when it’s crossed.

In parasocial bonds, that line gets blurry fast.

What starts as admiration can turn into assumption.
What starts as emotional support can slip into entitlement.

I’ve seen it happen in real time.

Fans who claim to be family members.
Fans who pressure artists to accept personal friend requests.
Fans who think a like or reply is a promise of something deeper.

There are those who track down family members of idols—messaging them, commenting, overstepping.
There are those who use fan spaces to scam others—posing as insiders, collecting money “for projects,” but pocketing it instead.

And then there are fans who, once hurt or disappointed, lash out.
They cross into harassment.
Legal threats.
Public smear campaigns.
All because the artist failed to meet a personal expectation they never agreed to in the first place.

This isn’t limited to one fandom or one culture. But in the Philippines—where family values run deep and online access is high—parasocial boundaries feel even more delicate.

We’re a culture that prides itself on closeness.
We call our idols “anak,” “ate,” “kuya.”
We cheer for them like relatives graduating from school.
And when they succeed, we say “I’m so proud of you,” with the weight of actual love.

It’s beautiful… until it becomes controlling.

The AlDub phenomenon taught me this early.
What began as genuine support turned, in some corners, into obsession.
Some fans couldn’t separate performance from real life.
Some demanded confirmation of a love story that was never theirs to own.

Ten years later, I still think about that.
How collective joy can shift into collective delusion if no one pumps the brakes.

In P-Pop today, we see similar patterns.
The accessibility of artists—their willingness to interact, post daily, attend events—creates a kind of closeness that’s easily misunderstood.

Sometimes, idols themselves aren’t fully aware of the weight of their replies.
A heart emoji from them might just be kindness.
But to a fan holding on by a thread, it feels like connection.

And when they stop replying?
The silence is deafening.

So where’s the line?

It’s somewhere between supporting and owning.
Between being inspired by someone and thinking they owe you something.
Between feeling close and forgetting they’re a person with boundaries.

And that line isn’t just for fans to respect.
Artists and their teams need to recognize it, too.

Not all parasocial relationships go too far.
But when they do, the harm isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s in the small fractures—an idol who becomes afraid to go live.
A fan who spirals after being blocked.
A community split in half over misread signals.

That’s why this matters.
Not because we want less connection.
But because we want healthier ones.

Why P-Pop Hits Different

P-Pop didn’t invent parasocial bonds.
But it definitely made them feel closer to home.

It’s not just about language or style.
It’s about the way we’re wired as Filipinos.

We don’t just stan.
We adopt.

In other fandoms, you might follow your fave, cheer from a distance, and keep it cool.
But here? It’s family.

That might sound exaggerated. But if you’re Filipino, you know what I mean.

This isn’t just fan behavior.
This is cultural inheritance—how we were raised to show affection.

We value closeness.
We read between the lines.
We overthink.
We get attached.

And when that attachment meets an industry like P-Pop—where idols go live almost daily, reply to tweets, perform in free mall shows, and speak in the same slang we use—it creates a relationship that feels mutual, even when it isn’t.

That’s not a bad thing.
That’s what makes P-Pop P-Pop.

You hear it in the lyrics.
You see it in the fan projects.
You feel it in the concert energy.

There’s something deeply shared in this scene.
Even the artists themselves sometimes say “we’re growing together,” and it doesn’t feel like a script.
It feels like an understanding.

It’s also why we become so protective.

When someone bashes an idol, it doesn’t feel like a stranger got hurt.
It feels like a sibling got dragged.

When someone leaves a group, we grieve—not just as fans but as taga-suporta ng pangarap nila.

And when they succeed?
We post about it like it’s our own win.
Because maybe it is.
Maybe believing in someone that hard, for that long, changes something in us too.

I’ve noticed that in BINI fans.
In the way BLOOMs scream not just for beauty but for progress.
In how we celebrate not just what the girls do—but how far they’ve come.

I’ve seen it in ALAMAT fans.
How Magiliws care not just about the members’ vocals—but about what they represent as a multilingual, multicultural group.
How their success feels like a win for regions, for dialects, for long-marginalized pride.

In ZAIA, I’ve watched fans grow up alongside KAIA.
Cheering not just for slick comebacks—but for the small signs of maturity, artistry, and confidence.

These aren’t shallow fandoms.
They’re emotional ecosystems.

And that’s why parasocial connections in P-Pop feel… different.
They’re wrapped in heritage.
In proximity.
In shared hardship.
In language that feels like home.

It doesn’t make them more real.
But it does make them more personal.

And that’s what makes the care feel heavier—when it’s good, and when it hurts.

Artists Have a Role Too

Parasocial relationships aren’t just shaped by fans.
Artists play a part, too.

Even if they don’t mean to.
Even if they’re just “being nice.”

Let’s be fair: most idols don’t wake up and say,
“Time to build a one-sided emotional attachment with strangers today.”

They just want to perform.
To connect.
To be seen.

But connection is never neutral.

Every like, every “I love you guys,” every heart emoji—especially from someone with a platform—feels bigger when you’re on the receiving end.

And in an industry like P-Pop, where intimacy is part of the package, that feeling builds fast.

Some idols get this.
They reply selectively.
They avoid using terms that might be misread.
They set invisible boundaries with grace.

But not all of them know how.
Some are new.
Some think being “close” means replying to DMs or adding fans on personal accounts.
Some underestimate their reach, especially when fame comes suddenly.

Others want to protect their image so badly that they never speak up—even when they’re uncomfortable.

That’s how things get messy.
That’s how expectations form, and break, and hurt people on both sides.

Idols aren’t therapists.
They’re not best friends.
They’re not your boyfriend or girlfriend.

But they are human.
Which means they, too, can get overwhelmed by fan expectations.
They can get anxious before going live.
They can feel trapped between being “grateful” and being honest.

There’s a need here—for awareness.
For training, even.

Not to make artists more distant.
But to make their closeness sustainable.
Safe.
Clear.

So they don’t burn out trying to be everyone’s emotional rescue.
And so fans don’t spiral when the interaction slows down.

This is even more important in P-Pop.

Because we’re not just mimicking K-Pop structures.
We’re doing it with a Filipino heart—warm, open, ready to give.
But that also means we need better tools to handle disappointment.
Clearer boundaries on both ends.

Not as punishment.
But as protection.

Artists should feel empowered to say “this is my private space.”
Fans should feel okay knowing that love doesn’t need replies to be real.

Parasocial doesn’t mean wrong.
But it does mean imbalanced.
And when you’re the one holding the megaphone, you have to know what your voice carries.

It’s Not Fake. But It’s Not Fully Real.

This is the part I struggled to write.

Because parasocial bonds don’t fit neatly into one box.
They’re not imaginary—but they’re not mutual.
They’re not fake—but they’re not equal.
They’re not delusions—but they’re not dialogues.

So what are they?

Maybe they’re emotional placeholders.
For something missing.
For someone you wish you could talk to.
For a version of yourself that feels easier to be when you’re stanning someone who inspires you.

Or maybe they’re just human instinct doing what it’s always done:
Connecting.

When you hear a voice every day,
When you see someone try, fail, grow, succeed,
When you watch someone do what they love with full effort—
Of course you’ll feel something.

That feeling isn’t fake.
It’s just… one-directional.
And that’s okay.

I used to feel embarrassed by how deep my attachments ran.
Especially during the AlDub era.
Or when I realized I was defending BINI like a protective kuya.
Or when I got irrationally hurt by an idol’s silence, even though they never promised me anything.

But over time, I stopped beating myself up for it.

I’m a person who feels things.
And sometimes, those feelings land in strange places.

A study in Media Psychology found that parasocial relationships can mimic real-life social bonds in the brain—triggering the same emotional patterns as friendships or mentorships.
But the brain doesn’t always recognize that the other person isn’t present.

That’s not weakness.
That’s wiring.

So when people say “It’s just in your head,”
I think,
Yes. And?

Most feelings start in your head.
That doesn’t make them less real.

Still, it’s important to name what these bonds are—and what they aren’t.

They’re not friendships.
They’re not mutual care.
They don’t have shared memory or accountability.

But they do leave something behind.
A softened heart.
A stronger will.
A deeper sense of belonging—especially in fandom spaces where that bond is mirrored by others.

So if you’re a fan who’s been told your connection isn’t valid—
If someone’s mocked you for “caring too much”—
Let this be a reminder:

Your care is real.
Just know where to place it.

Not on the pedestal.
But in your own life.
In your growth.
In your art.
In your friendships.

Use the bond—but don’t be consumed by it.
That’s how you keep it from breaking you.

A Note to Fans Who Feel Too Attached

If you’ve ever stared at your phone, rereading an idol’s comment like it meant something deeper—
If you’ve ever cried during a livestream because they looked tired and you couldn’t help—
If you’ve ever gotten jealous of fans who received more attention—
If you’ve ever spent hours defending someone who doesn’t even know your name—

And afterward, you felt ashamed—
Like you had to hide it—
Like you were “too much”—

This part is for you.

You are not broken.
You are not stupid.
You are not dramatic.

You are human.
And humans attach.
It’s what we do.

When things around you feel uncertain, or when real-life friendships feel distant, it makes perfect sense to lean into something—someone—who feels safe.

Someone who smiles.
Someone who says, “You matter.”
Even if they’re saying it to thousands.

The truth is, you did feel seen.
Even if just for a moment.
Even if only in your heart.

But here’s the gentle truth, too:

They don’t know you.
And that’s okay.

You’re allowed to love what they represent.
You’re allowed to feel connected to their voice, their journey, their energy.
But don’t lose yourself chasing something that was never mutual.

You deserve relationships that go both ways.

So if you feel yourself slipping—
If your joy rises or falls based on whether an idol replies—
If you lose sleep waiting for updates—
If you find yourself obsessing instead of supporting—

Pause.

Breathe.

Ask yourself: Is this helping me live better?
Or is it replacing the parts of my life I’m avoiding?

This isn’t about cutting off the connection.
This is about reclaiming it.

Let the music inspire you.
Let their discipline motivate you.
Let the community lift you up.
But let your self-worth be yours alone.

I still get carried away sometimes.
I still reply to tweets as if they’ll read them.
I still feel proud when I see my faves succeed.
But now, I hold that feeling gently—like light, not fire.

You don’t need to feel guilty for caring.
You just need to make sure that care doesn’t leave you empty.

One-sided doesn’t mean meaningless.
It just means it’s yours to hold, and yours to let go—when you’re ready.

And when you’re not ready yet?
That’s okay too.
You’re learning.

We all are.

Not Just in Your Head

So maybe it was just a tweet.
Just a video.
Just a lyric.

But it helped you get through the day.
It made you feel something again.
It reminded you that effort, art, connection—matter.

That’s not silly.
That’s not fake.
That’s not “too much.”

That’s a story millions of fans quietly carry in their own way.

Parasocial bonds are strange, yes.
But they’re also part of how we survive in a world that doesn’t always hold us gently.

So if you’ve loved someone from afar—
If you’ve built community around that love—
If you’ve become more yourself because of it—

Hold onto the good it gave you.
Just don’t forget to hold yourself, too.

You’re allowed to cheer loudly.
To feel proud.
To cry when they say something that hits you right in the chest.

Just remember: you’re still the main character of your life.
Not them.
Not the story you built around them.
You.

Support them.
Celebrate them.
Defend them when necessary.
But don’t lose yourself in them.

Make art.
Make friends.
Make time for silence.
Make time for real-world joy.

And when it gets blurry again—because it will—
Pause.
Look around.
Ask: Is this still love? Or am I hoping it will love me back?

Because at the end of the day, you deserve connection that sees you too.
And until that comes—
Let music comfort.
Let fandom hold.
Let the bond stay, as long as you need it.

Just keep growing beside it.

It’s not rhetorical. I’ve asked it in whispers, in traffic, while shopping for groceries, after leading worship, and during nights when prayer felt more like static than speech. It’s the kind of question that lingers even when you already know the theology. It’s not a question about doctrine. It’s a question about survival.

Because when you’re trying to stay alive while believing in a living God, something inside you starts to splinter.

A Personal Season

At first, I didn’t know what to call it.

All I knew was that something in me had shut down. Emotionally, I was distant. Spiritually, I was tired. Physically, I had no energy. Regular days didn’t feel dramatic—they just felt blank. I couldn’t bring myself to study or do chores. I’d stare at review materials for hours, barely absorbing a word. I skipped meals or ate without tasting anything. I would show up for worship duties, smile at the right times, speak when needed—but the moment I was alone, everything went quiet again.

There were no outbursts. Just fatigue. Just stillness. Just the slow disappearance of joy from the things that used to give me life.

I tried to push through. I thought maybe it was just a phase, or that I needed to pray harder. But it didn’t lift. If anything, it got heavier.

The message I was holding to for years was that depression couldn’t exist alongside real faith. That sadness on this level must be some form of sin, or mistrust, or spiritual laziness. I was told, more than once, that maybe depressed people just needed to be reminded of who they are in Christ. That a true child of God couldn’t possibly feel this way.

So I stopped trying to acknowledge this feeling. I buried the language. I stayed quiet.

By then, I had already been pushed out of the place where I should’ve felt safest.

The Church’s Silence

I mustered the courage to say it: “I think I might be depressed.”

That was a big deal. I wasn’t just anyone—I was part of church leadership. I had responsibilities. People looked up to me. But I couldn’t lie anymore. I had to say it, even if just to test the waters.

What made it worse was that I was in the middle of our Neurology and Psychiatry block in medical school. I was literally learning about depression while slowly recognizing it in myself (though the block already warned against self-diagnosis with a disclaimer at the start of the lessons). The irony was unbearable. It felt like my body was calling out for help at the same time the lectures were confirming everything I feared.

But when I admitted it, the response was not comfort. They responded with correction.

“If you’re a real child of God,” someone said, “how can you feel so unhappy when you’ve been given everything in Christ?”

It wasn’t just a theological disagreement. It was a wound. And I carried it for a long time.

Only later—after I had already stepped back from leadership, after I had begun the slow process of recovery—did I receive a formal diagnosis.

When I finally sat down with a psychiatrist, he told me something that explained everything:
“You may have been chronically depressed for years. You were just trained to survive it.”

And he was right. I had learned to disguise it as sacrifice. To keep performing even when my soul was bleeding. The diagnosis didn’t shock me—it made things clearer.

I had learned to smile through exhaustion. To spiritualize suffering. To convince myself that serving harder would make the sadness disappear. I wasn’t just depressed. I was discipled into denial.

The Turning Point

I wouldn’t call it a breakthrough. Just a moment of mercy.

My then-fiancé (now my wife) and I were attending Christian marriage counseling months before our wedding day. And during the sessions, we met another couple—one of them training in psychiatry. It was strange how naturally the conversation, together with the minister who wed us and his wife, turned to depression, like God was letting me speak without rehearsing, without fear.

That’s when someone finally said it: “Faith and depression can coexist.”

It wasn’t an excuse. It wasn’t sugarcoating. It was just true. They told us that faith might not take the depression away, but it gives you something to hold onto. That sometimes you won’t feel the presence of God, but that doesn’t mean He left. That seeking medical help isn’t a betrayal of trust in God—it’s often the very means by which God moves.

I did cry. But I also breathed, a little deeper than usual.

Misunderstanding vs. Reality

Depression isn’t a lack of faith.

Say that again. Say it loud enough for the people at the back of the sanctuary. Say it for the small group leader who still thinks sadness is disobedience. Say it for the teenager Googling “Is Christian depression real?” at 2 AM. Say it for yourself.

Because here’s the thing: you can know every catechism, memorize every verse, volunteer every weekend, and still feel like you’re drowning inside. That doesn’t mean you’re lying. It means you’re human.

My diagnosis didn’t cancel my theology. If anything, it deepened it. It made me wrestle with the idea that being “fearfully and wonderfully made” includes a brain that sometimes misfires. That grace doesn’t always feel warm. That you can be filled with the Holy Spirit and still be flattened by the weight of chemical depression.

I wish more churches understood that the Christian life isn’t performance. It’s a constant clinging. And clinging is hard when your hands are shaking.

What Helped Me

To be honest, I didn’t find help in prayer circles or worship sets. I found it in medication. In quiet psychiatric consults. In the slow recalibration of my brain through the guidance of my doctor. It wasn’t instant. It wasn’t magical. And it certainly wasn’t easy.

The meds didn’t make me happy. They didn’t make me more spiritual. What they gave me was margin—just enough space in my head to breathe. Enough clarity to tell when my thoughts were lying. Enough calm to have a real conversation without spiraling.

It took time. Years, even. I had to adjust doses, manage side effects, show up to appointments I didn’t want to attend. Sometimes I stopped taking them altogether because I thought I didn’t need them anymore. Other times I resented that I ever needed them at all.

But over time, I began to see it differently. Healing didn’t have to look like a testimony. It didn’t have to be fast, or dramatic, or full of spiritual metaphors. It could be quiet. Uneven. Messy.

Eventually, I prayed again. Not the kind of prayer you write down and post on Instagram. Just a whisper. A sigh, maybe. I didn’t even realize I was back until I was. And when I look back now, I see that God didn’t wait for me to “get better” before staying close. He was there. The whole time. Even when I wasn’t.

Theological Reflection

I was raised with the doctrine of the perseverance of the saints, which means that all people who will be saved will always be saved as planned by God. We may not agree with this even if you yourself are a Christian, but it’s one of the few theological truths that didn’t feel like theory when I was in the depths—it felt like an anchor.

It told me that I would be held, even if I didn’t feel held. That I would be kept, even if I didn’t think I was worth keeping.

Still, when the depression got worse, there were days I asked myself: What if I was never truly saved to begin with? What if my weakness proved I wasn’t chosen?

That’s the cruel twist of mental illness—it doesn’t just drain your strength. It makes you doubt the very things that once gave you peace. And because these questions felt spiritual, I didn’t know where to place them. I was scared to speak them out loud.

But looking back, I can say this: grace didn’t abandon me. I may have stopped singing for a while. I may have withdrawn. I may have fought with my wife, missed deadlines, failed to show up for people. But I wasn’t forsaken.

Faith didn’t erase the illness. But it kept me alive long enough to heal.

My Encouragements for You

If you’re in that place now—where everything feels flat, and you don’t see a way forward—hear this clearly: you’re not less Christian for feeling this way.

You don’t have to pray your way out of clinical depression. You can pray and take your meds. You can go to church and schedule a therapy session. You can read your Bible and rest in the care of a psychiatrist who listens well and treats you with dignity.

If you have faith mentors, a small group, or a trusted friend who truly listens, let them walk with you. But if you don’t—or if the people around you don’t understand—go to someone who does. Professional help is not a sign of failure. It’s God’s gift, too.

And if all you can manage today is staying alive: that’s more than enough.

Scripture Interwoven

I go back, often, to these verses—not to fix myself, but to be reminded that Scripture makes room for sorrow.

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
—Matthew 11:28

Jesus never promised that the burden would disappear. Only that it would be shared. Only that His yoke would be light—not absent, but lighter.

The Psalms are full of people crying out: “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13:1)
And God doesn’t silence them. He lets them speak. Their grief is preserved in the Word itself.

There’s no shame in lament.

If anything, the Bible seems to insist that even the deepest believers had days of darkness. Elijah wanted to die. David wept in caves. Paul despaired of life itself. And still, they were never disqualified from being God’s.

Neither are you.

Closing Message

You’re still here.

And that matters.

You’re still waking up, still searching, still whispering questions into the night. You’re still holding on to the threads of something real, even when it slips through your fingers. You’re still trying to believe that your life has meaning, even when your brain says otherwise.

Let me tell you: that’s faith.

Not the loud kind. Not the picture-perfect kind. But the kind that clings even when it doesn’t feel anything.

You can be Christian and depressed.

You can cry and still be chosen.

You can question and still be held.

God’s love isn’t dependent on your performance, your mental clarity, or your emotional state. It doesn’t expire when your serotonin dips. It doesn’t vanish because you had to take a break from church. It doesn’t change because you’re tired of pretending.

If you’ve ever thought faith is for the emotionally stable, I’m here to remind you that the gospel is for the broken. And you, in all your weariness, are exactly the kind of person Jesus would sit beside—not to shame, not to fix in a second, but to simply be with.

So don’t rush yourself. Don’t fake it. Don’t fear the meds. Don’t believe that your tears make you weak.

Grace never left.

And neither did He.

Coming Soon in the Series

1. Deconstructing Without Losing Everything
2. When the Bible Makes You Angry
3. The Faith I Left Behind (and the One I Found Again)
4. What Happens If I Walk Away?

They say,
smile through the pain.
And I tried.
I really tried.
Till my cheeks hurt more than my chest.

“Don’t be so negative,”
they say—
as if naming the darkness
somehow made it darker.
As if sadness were a stain
and silence would bleach it clean.

I was drowning,
but they handed me glitter.
“Think happy thoughts,”
they said,
as if my body were a Pinterest board
and not a battleground.

I learned early—
cry quietly.
Don’t make people uncomfortable.
If you must be sad,
make it brief,
and smile right after
to prove you’re still worth keeping around.

But let me ask you—

Who decided that joy
was more holy than grief?

Who sold us this idea
that to be positive
is to be whole?

Because the world is burning,
people are tired,
bills are rising,
and you want me to
manifest good vibes?

I’m sorry.
No.
Not today.

I don’t want your pastel-colored affirmations
pasted over real cracks.

I don’t want to “choose peace”
if it means denying my truth.

Some days
the only honest thing I can say
is that I’m not okay.
And that has to be enough.

You don’t tell someone bleeding out
to visualize clotting.

You don’t tell someone in a storm
to think sunshine thoughts.

You sit with them.
You shelter them.
You say,
“This is hard.”
You say,
“I see you.”
You say nothing,
but you stay.

So why can’t we do that
with sadness?

Why do we fear
our own reflection
when it frowns back?

There is no growth
without rot.
No spring
without cold.

You can’t keep skipping
to the part of the movie
where everything is resolved.

Some scenes need
to play out
in real time.

Sometimes,
you need to scream.
Sometimes,
you need to cancel plans.
Sometimes,
you need to lie on the floor
and feel the weight of everything
you’ve been pretending
doesn’t exist.

Because here’s the thing:
negativity
isn’t the enemy.
It’s the signal.

It’s the check engine light
on the soul.

And no matter how hard
you try to ignore it,
it won’t go away
until you stop
and look under the hood.

I’m not saying
live in your pain.
I’m saying
visit it when it knocks.
Give it tea.
Let it speak.

Then,
when it’s ready,
let it leave.

Healing isn’t linear.
It’s not a steady climb.
It’s messy.
Cyclical.
Exhausting.

But it’s real.

And I want real
more than I want
“good vibes only.”

So to anyone listening—
to the one holding in tears
because someone told you
they’re “too much,”

to the one exhausted
from pretending that every day
is a gift,

to the one who’s tired
of being someone else’s inspiration
when they just want to rest—

you don’t have to smile right now.

You don’t have to fake light
to be loved.

Let your darkness speak.

You are not less
for being honest.
You are not broken
for being tired.
You are not weak
for needing time.

You’re human.

And that is enough.

I don’t remember the exact post. Maybe it was a renovated kitchen. A house painted new. A caption that said, finally, after years of hard work. A smile holding keys.

I was on my phone. I think I had just finished washing a few plates. My back ached a little. My hands smelled faintly of dish soap. I was scrolling—scrolling the way most people do when they’re waiting for something that isn’t coming.

That’s when I saw it.

It wasn’t jealousy. I don’t think I’m built like that. It was something quieter. Like a door closing in a house I don’t live in. A reminder that I was still here, doing what felt like nothing.

That was college. Or maybe it was med school. Or maybe it was just last night.

I’ve been through this cycle more than once.

When I shifted from marketing to biology, I knew it would set me back. Transferring schools in third year meant starting over. Everyone else was counting down to graduation. I was figuring out which of my subjects would be credited and which wouldn’t.

They were taking thesis photos. I was recalibrating.

They were stepping out of college. I was stepping back in.

And back then, it didn’t hurt so loudly. I was younger. I thought, there’s time. I thought, as long as I finish, that’s enough.

But the internet doesn’t care what you tell yourself.

Every scroll became a highlight reel. Someone I knew was starting a business. Someone else was engaged. Someone I competed against in a contest was now living abroad. Another was pregnant, and still looked so happy.

Meanwhile, I was in a room with poor lighting, listening to a generated voice lecture, wondering if I was really cut out for this.

There’s a part of me that tries to make sense of it.

That tells myself: you weren’t lazy. You weren’t lost. You were trying. You were surviving. You were still washing dishes, still showing up. Still doing what needed to be done.

But that part of me isn’t very loud.

The louder part says: look at you. No job. No wins. You’re not just behind—you’re stuck.

And worse: you’re dragging someone else with you.

I think that’s the part that stings the most. Not the distance between me and my peers. But the feeling that I’ve pulled my wife into this life that feels like waiting. Like surviving on love and leftovers. Like asking too much.

And she—kind as ever—reminds me I’m doing just fine. That something better will come. That even this kind of life is still a life.

I didn’t post about those nights. I didn’t have photos of milestones. Just memories of dishes stacked beside a sink. The sound of running water. The heat of a lightbulb too close to my head. The hum of my phone overheating on my chest as I scrolled through things that weren’t mine.

Still, I kept showing up.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Part 2: Small Wins, Unposted

I don’t think I’ve ever posted a milestone just to show I had one.

Not because I’m better than that. Not because I’m above it.

But because I didn’t have much to post.

No new job. No new car. No bought-my-first-condo-with-hard-earned-money type of reel.

What I had were half-read notes and alarms that I kept snoozing. I had saved PDF meal plans that I barely followed. I had one pair of jeans that fit a little too tight, but I wore them anyway because they were the only ones that didn’t look tired.

Sometimes, I did something small and finished it.

A laundry load. A grocery run. A one-sitting YouTube video that didn’t ask much from my brain.

I cleaned the sink. I folded the same shirts again and again.

No one clapped. No one reacted.

But those days mattered.

They still do.

When you’re not winning in ways people expect, you start to lower your idea of success.

At first, I thought that was a bad thing. Like I was settling.

But now I wonder if maybe we were always wrong about what success is.

What if success isn’t big at all? What if it’s not loud?

What if it’s making a budget and sticking to it—even if there’s only enough for the week?

What if it’s choosing to smile at your wife while you both eat reheated leftovers?

What if it’s staying soft when everything in you wants to shut down?

What if it’s not quitting—even if you can’t name what you’re doing?

I’ve seen people make it. That’s not bitterness. It’s just true.

And I want them to win. I do. I cheer when I can. I tap heart emojis. I mean them.

But some nights, I wish my own life made more sense.

I wish I had something to tell my younger self—that version of me who kept scrolling and scrolling, waiting for a sign that he wasn’t too late.

I wish I could tell him that finishing the dishes mattered.

That it proved he could complete something. That it showed up in his muscle memory, in his rhythm, in his discipline.

That it counted.

There are no photos of those dishes.

No applause for brushing your teeth after crying.

No badges for trying not to disappear.

But I lived those days.

I live them still.

And every time I wash another plate, I whisper to myself:

You’re still here. You’re still trying. And that’s something.

Part 3: What I Didn’t Post

I didn’t post my transcript when I shifted courses.
Didn’t post the rejections.
Didn’t post the day I found out I had to repeat subjects.

Didn’t post when I stayed in bed the whole afternoon after convincing myself I deserved to rest—when really, I just couldn’t move.

Didn’t post the time I googled: “What happens if I give up?”

Didn’t post the days I felt like a burden.
Didn’t post the guilt that came from needing help.
Didn’t post the long nights when I stared at the ceiling while my wife slept soundly beside me, unaware that I was praying to something I wasn’t even sure was listening.

Didn’t post the fear that maybe all I’ve done amounts to nothing.

People say, if it’s not online, did it even happen?

Yes.

Yes, it did.

Even if no one liked it.
Even if no one saw.
Even if it didn’t trend or get shared.

It happened.

My heartbreak happened. My struggle happened. My washing-the-dishes life happened.

And it still does.

I remember walking home once after a long day of nothing. I didn’t fail any tests. Didn’t get into a fight. Nothing dramatic. Just a whole day of silence—of not knowing what I was doing, or if it would ever be enough.

The sky was dim. A little pink. A little gray. The kind of evening no one writes about.

But I noticed the breeze. I noticed the weight of my bag. I noticed I was still breathing.

That night, I washed dishes again. Still unsure. Still not enough.

But I finished the chore.

And something about that felt like living.

Sometimes I think about how different my feed would look if I posted those moments.

If there was a highlight reel for staying kind to yourself.

If there was a reaction button for “still here, still holding on.”

If people could “like” the sound of a cup returning to its place in the dish cabinet.

If silence could be seen.

I didn’t post, not because I was hiding.

But because I didn’t know how to share something that looked like nothing but felt like everything.

And because sometimes, even in a noisy world, silence is the only thing that feels honest.

Part 4: Learning to Stay Soft

I could’ve turned hard. I really could’ve.

It’s not hard to become bitter. You just stop saying congratulations. You stop replying. You mute a few stories. You stop hoping.

I almost went there.

My wife tells me I’m doing fine. Not in the way people say it to brush things off. But in the way she really means it.

“You’re doing fine,” she says, while I stare at the sink full of dishes again. While I replay job interviews in my head and wonder if I said too much or too little. While I lay down on bed while waiting for her to arrive after another long day of nothing working.

She says it like she knows something I don’t.

And maybe she does.

Because somehow, she still looks at me with warmth. Still shares the bed with me even when I lie there feeling like I haven’t earned her love today. Still saves the last bite of food for me even when I say I’m not hungry.

Sometimes I think she’s the only reason I haven’t collapsed.

It takes effort to stay soft.

To not let the lack of progress turn you mean.
To not let silence become shame.
To not let being “behind” define everything about you.

It’s easier to get cold.
To scroll past people.
To fake a laugh.
To stop dreaming altogether.

But I haven’t stopped. Not fully.

And that has to count for something.

The most radical thing I’ve done lately?

I let myself rest.

I ate in bed with my wife after ordering burgers, sweet potato fries, and onion rings. No fancy dinner. No Instagram post.

Just us. A small room. A quiet evening.

And that, somehow, felt like the bravest thing.

Part 5: The Dishes Still Wait

They’re still there, honestly.

The dishes.

In our shared sink. With the sponge we should’ve replaced. No more hot light above me but the windows blow a cold breeze every time I’m here.

I still wash them.

Sometimes after breakfast. Sometimes right before bed. Sometimes hours after I said I would.

And when I do, I still think of everything I haven’t achieved.

I still scroll. Still see the job offers. The weddings. The 5AM workouts and new apartment keys and soft launch of lives that seem so clean, so curated.

I still catch myself wondering:

Am I doing enough?

I guess I’m not waiting for a big revelation anymore.

This isn’t a story where I suddenly got hired. Or went viral. Or proved all my inner doubts wrong with one breakthrough.

This is just a slow season.

The kind no one claps for.

The kind you survive in small ways.

With clean plates. With whispered prayers. With a warm meal and the choice to get up again tomorrow.

I look at my hands sometimes. They’ve washed so much.

Not just dishes. But days.

Days where I thought I was useless. Days I didn’t want to wake up. Days where all I did was survive the hour.

And yet—here I am.

Still here.

Still trying.

Still loving.

Still soft.

Maybe that’s the real milestone. Not the big wins, not the photos with captions ready.

But the quiet fact that I’ve stayed.

That I didn’t disappear.

That I’ve built something real, not online, but right here—in the silence, in the mundane, in the small decisions to keep going.

And when everyone else was posting milestones, I was just doing dishes.

But maybe that was the point.

Maybe that was enough.

Hospitals are loud in the way they beep, hum, and roll—but somehow, the silence still finds you.

In one room, someone lay recovering. The nurse had stepped out. A relative was gone to get food. The phone nearby was untouched, glowing softly, unanswered.

And in that moment, there was no pain, no crisis. Just a quiet question forming in the stillness:

Who do we reach for when we feel most alone?

Because presence matters. Not advice. Not even help. Just someone breathing beside you.

It’s something that keeps coming up in medicine. In life. How much of our health is actually tied to the people around us?

Turns out, more than we think.

THE SCIENCE OF CONNECTION: WHY RELATIONSHIPS MATTER TO OUR HEALTH

Loneliness is more than just a feeling. It’s a biological stressor.

Multiple studies have shown that people with strong social relationships have a 50% increased likelihood of survival compared to those with weaker social ties[cm_simple_footnote id=1]. That’s comparable to the risks of smoking up to 15 cigarettes a day[cm_simple_footnote id=2].

When we’re socially connected, our bodies release more oxytocin—the so-called “bonding hormone.” It helps lower blood pressure, reduce inflammation, and even boost our immune response[cm_simple_footnote id=3].

On the flip side, chronic loneliness activates the same brain pathways as physical pain[cm_simple_footnote id=4]. It increases cortisol levels, which mess with everything from sleep to digestion to immunity. It can worsen outcomes in heart disease, stroke, depression, and even cancer recovery[cm_simple_footnote id=5].

This isn’t just metaphorical anymore. Connection is as physiological as it is emotional.

BUT CONNECTION ISN’T ALWAYS EASY

We all want to feel close to someone. But wanting it doesn’t always make it easy.

Some of us grew up in households where emotions weren’t talked about. Some of us are shy. Some have trust issues that go way back. And for many, especially immigrants like me, moving to a new country strips away the default support system—family, old friends, familiar neighbors.

Even in marriage, even in close friendships, there are days when you still feel… alone.

I remember a patient—mid-40s, recently separated, came in for chronic fatigue. All labs normal. BP fine. No signs of infection. But she was exhausted, anxious, and sleeping poorly.

After three visits, she finally said, “I just don’t have anyone to talk to anymore.”

It changed the entire conversation. What she needed wasn’t another pill. She needed connection.

COMMUNITY INVOLVEMENT AND ITS HEALING EFFECTS

There’s something underrated about just being around people who see you and say your name.

Community doesn’t have to be grand. It could be your church, your book club, your coworkers, or even that neighbor who always waves at you when you take the trash out.

Volunteering, in particular, is one of the strongest predictors of mental well-being among older adults[cm_simple_footnote id=6]. It gives a sense of purpose, helps build routine, and—again—brings you into contact with others.

In medical recovery, especially after serious illness or surgery, people do better when they have post-discharge support. It’s not just having someone pick them up from the hospital. It’s being reminded to take meds. It’s someone saying, “You’re getting better,” when you feel like you’re not.

Some hospitals even have volunteer programs for friendly check-ins with isolated patients. It improves mood. But more than that—it improves compliance, recovery time, and overall prognosis[cm_simple_footnote id=7].

People don’t just want to be cured. They want to be remembered.

WHAT LONELINESS DOES TO MENTAL HEALTH

Loneliness is a risk factor for depression. That’s a fact[cm_simple_footnote id=8].

But sometimes, it’s even harder to explain. You’re not sad. You’re just… blank. Disconnected. As if you’re watching your life rather than living it.

There was a time I felt that way too. Not clinically depressed, perhaps, but I lost the will to initiate things. I didn’t reply to messages. I kept putting off calls. I felt like a bother to others. The silence became self-inflicted.

And once you’re there, the way out feels like shouting into a void.

For people with chronic illness, this becomes a vicious cycle. The illness isolates them, which worsens their mental health, which in turn affects their immune system and slows recovery[cm_simple_footnote id=9].

That’s why support groups exist. They’re not always about solving things. They’re about saying, “You’re not alone in this.”

HOW TO NURTURE HEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS (EVEN IF YOU’RE TIRED)

Let’s be honest. Maintaining relationships can be draining too. Especially if you’re working full-time, raising a family, or dealing with your own health struggles.

But here’s a few small things that can help:

1. Respond, even if briefly. You don’t need to write a novel. A simple, “Thinking of you too,” can keep a connection alive.
2. Schedule check-ins. It may sound cold, but sometimes connection needs to be planned.
3. Be honest when you’re not okay. Vulnerability deepens relationships more than pretending to be fine.
4. Ask questions back. People open up when they feel heard.
5. Don’t ghost. If you need space, say it. Silence without context creates wounds.
6. Use the five-minute rule. If a message or call will take less than five minutes, do it now.
7. Stop expecting perfect. Some friends won’t always understand. That doesn’t mean they don’t care.

Connection doesn’t have to be deep all the time. It just has to be real.

RELATIONSHIPS IN RECOVERY: STORIES I WON’T FORGET

I once had a post-surgical patient who healed faster than we expected. Older gentleman. Diabetic. I was puzzled.

“Anak ko kasi nandidito lagi, doc,” he said. “Hindi ko kailangan isipin kung paano bumangon. Sinasalo na niya.”

His son helped him sit up. Held his hand during dressing changes.

Another was a woman who needed regular consults at the clinic. She kept smiling. Every visit, someone different came with her—a friend, a sibling, a cousin. Each of them brought a part of her joy back.

Meanwhile, there are those who come alone. And I mean really alone. No one to call. No visitors. No follow-up support. These are the ones I fear for the most. Not because of their diagnosis. But because healing in isolation is so much harder.

IF YOU’RE LONELY, PLEASE READ THIS

You are not less of a person just because you don’t have people around you right now.

Loneliness can happen to anyone. Even those who seem surrounded.

Start small. Comment on a post. Message someone you miss. Join a forum. Volunteer once. Say hi to your neighbor. It may not feel like much, but connection grows like seedlings—slow and quiet, until one day, it shelters you.

And if you are the one who’s healthy right now, check in on someone. You don’t know how much they’ve been needing it.

FINAL THOUGHT: HEALTH IS NEVER JUST ABOUT THE BODY

We talk about diet, exercise, sleep, and medicine.

But maybe we should also talk more about conversations, shared meals, quiet companionship, and long phone calls.

Because in the end, healing isn’t just about fixing what’s wrong.

It’s about being reminded that you matter.

No, Not Because It Was Bad.

You’d think that if I loved a show, I’d binge it.

But no.

The more I love something, the less likely I am to finish it.

I stopped watching Doctor Who in the middle of Peter Capaldi’s run. It wasn’t because I got bored. Or because it got worse. It was the opposite. I loved the Twelfth Doctor. The stories were everything I wanted. And somehow, I didn’t want it to end.

So I just… paused. Promised myself I’d return. I didn’t.

I Call It “Goodendingphobia”

It’s not real. Not officially, at least.

But it fits.

That quiet fear of finishing something good. That anxiety when you’re nearing the finale. That strange resistance to closure — not because it’s unsatisfying, but because it might be too satisfying. Or too painful. Or too final.

I’m naming it now. Goodendingphobia.

Maybe you have it, too.

It’s Not Just About TV

It got worse after I became a doctor. After I went through med school, clerkship, pandemic isolation, internship, the boards. All the “big things” that came with little goodbyes.

During those years, I noticed I was pausing more. Shows, movies, books. Even YouTube videos longer than 20 minutes. The moment something felt good — like really good — I’d want to hold off. Delay it. Save it. Promise I’ll return. I almost never do.

It’s not about being busy. I finished plenty of things I didn’t even enjoy. This was something else.

I thought I was being dramatic. But then I looked it up.

The Psychology Behind It

It turns out there are actual explanations for this. While goodendingphobia isn’t in any diagnostic manual (hahahahahahahaha), there are recognized psychological mechanisms that match the feeling.

1. Anticipatory Anxiety

Anticipating something painful can sometimes feel worse than the event itself. Our brains overreact to imagined future distress.

Grupe & Nitschke (2013) explain this in Nature Reviews Neuroscience, showing how the brain engages threat circuits even before a feared outcome occurs

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In shows, that means you feel the hurt before the heartbreak even happens.

2. Intolerance of Uncertainty

We get uneasy when we don’t know what’s next. For some, not knowing how a story ends is unbearable. For others — like me — knowing something will end is the unbearable part.

Carleton (2016) describes this as a major factor in anxiety and avoidance behaviors

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The solution? Delay. Pause. Stay in the “before.”

3. Parasocial Attachment

Ever felt like a character is your friend? Or like you’re grieving someone fictional? You’re not alone.

Cohen (2004) studied how people react to “parasocial breakups,” and some of the distress mirrors real-life loss

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No wonder I couldn’t finish the Doctor’s journey. It felt like losing someone who stayed with me during lonely years.

4. Narrative Transportation

The better the story, the more it pulls you in. That immersion can also be exhausting.

Green & Brock (2000) show how being “transported” by stories heightens emotion and can lead to strong beliefs, identity shifts, or emotional hangovers

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Sometimes we stop not because we’re bored — but because we’re too moved.

5. Avoidance Coping

Avoidance works — temporarily. When something feels overwhelming, our brain’s go-to tactic is simple: don’t go there.

Suls & Fletcher (1985) found that avoidance is a common short-term strategy to reduce stress

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It’s like our brains say, Let’s not get hurt today. Maybe tomorrow. Or never.

The Grief of a Pause Button

I want to talk about this not to analyze myself like a patient. But because I know someone out there does this, too.

You stop watching a show not because it’s not good — but because it’s too good.

You save episodes. You hoard emotional moments for “later.” You avoid the scene where everything changes. You tell yourself you’ll finish it next week, but next week never comes.

It’s a soft grief. Not loud, not dramatic. But persistent.

It’s Not Just About Shows

I started noticing how this leaked into other parts of my life.

Not finishing things. Not opening messages. Not wrapping up a journal. Not reading the final page. Not listening to the bridge of a song.

I didn’t want to end anything. Because endings reminded me of all the good days I rushed through before. Days I didn’t know were good until they were gone.

And I think — maybe — it’s about control. If I delay the ending, I feel like I still have power over it. If I don’t watch it, it hasn’t happened yet.

The story stays alive.

You Might Feel This, Too

Maybe for you it’s not Doctor Who. Maybe it’s BoJack Horseman. Or The Good Place. Or Abot-Kamay Na Pangarap. Or that K-drama you adored but couldn’t bring yourself to finish. Or that Pixar movie that still sits unopened in your files because you just know it’ll break you.

Maybe it’s not a show. Maybe it’s a season in your life. A friendship. A chapter. A goodbye you never said.

What Now?

Honestly? I don’t have an answer. I still haven’t finished the Doctor’s story.

But I’m naming it now. Goodendingphobia. That quiet, tender fear of finishing something good.

Maybe naming it is the first step. Maybe talking about it helps.

Maybe we work through it together — little by little.

Maybe we try watching that last episode. Maybe we close the tab and take a breath. Maybe we finish that series — not because we’re ready — but because it deserves to be seen through.

Or maybe we don’t.

And that’s okay, too.