The words that follow carry pain—and also seeds of hope. It is about depression and other mental illnesses. It is about the isolation and anguish felt not only by the person with the illness, but by their families as well.
And…it is about taking steps to lift these stories out of darkness and shame. It means removing the stigma around mental illness and recognizing it for what it truly is: a physical illness that deserves care and compassion like any other. It means creating safe spaces where people can open up, share their pain, and speak honestly about the challenges that come when mental illness becomes part of their lives.
I know about this pain. I carried the burden alone for many years, living with a spouse who battled relentless, treatment-resistant depression. Recently I had a discussion with him. I asked his permission to share details of our story and our pain. He agreed without a moment’s hesitation, with the hope of paving the way toward honest conversations that will offer support and lighten the burden for others in similar situations.
Still, this is hard to talk about. Opening old wounds is painful. Overcoming the shame and stigma can feel daunting. Yet I feel it matters to share my story—what it has been like to shoulder the burden of caring for a person with severe depression, mostly on my own, and what it feels like to finally open up and let others be there with you.
My former husband, David, was diagnosed with severe depression almost thirty years ago when our youngest child was one year old and our oldest was eleven years old, with two more in between. For many years, we didn’t open up about the depression. Or when we did, it wasn’t in much detail. Our story was shrouded in silence. No one knew what it was like to live with it twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I often felt that we weren’t a couple, that there was a third entity, a nameless, black thing that could seize David in its claws, in a split second turning a calm moment into one fraught with anger and angst.
Tweaking the dosage of a medication or starting a new treatment plan often gave us hope, but sadly, these periods of reprieve were mostly short-lived. Oftentimes he was unable to parent or work steadily. I was unable to count on my partner as a co-parent or confidante, and I felt isolated in my marriage. For years, I thought I could reason with him. But you can’t reason with an illness—it doesn’t know how to listen.
I told very few people about what I was going through. My voice was stilled and I couldn’t bring myself to reach out to others for help. I didn’t hear people talking about depression or any other mental illnesses. I felt embarrassment and shame and a need to protect David and my family from social stigma. Often this meant going alone to celebrations, Shabbat meals, or gatherings of any kind. I covered for David; I made excuses.
In coaching we have an expression: “Holding up a mirror to your face.” It’s when the mask you’re wearing is stripped away and you finally see the truth for what it is. I had a moment like that when I watched the movie “A Beautiful Mind.” It is the story of a brilliant man, haunted by his schizophrenia and how it affected his family and his marriage. There was a scene where his wife was alone in the bathroom, feeling desperate, alone and at the end of her rope, crying and screaming hysterically. I had to turn away because I saw myself in that scene, in those endless tears and in the despair.
Eventually, I came to a realization. Partly it came from learning at Yeshivat Maharat that mental illnesses are physical illnesses, not challenges to be overcome by sheer willpower. Partly it came from being overwhelmed by the American insurance system and needing help to navigate it. But mostly, it came from knowing I was too worn out, too downhearted—and that I no longer wanted to carry this burden alone.
Opening Up
It was difficult to open up. It felt like violating a long-held taboo. I had to find the confidence to speak. At times, I stumbled over my words. Yet, as I pushed forward, as I began sharing our story, this is what I discovered:I received love, not disdain; hugs, not scorn; empathy, not pity; warmth, not dismissal. People listened and understood. I was introduced to those who guided me in navigating the insurance system and clarified the American disability laws. I felt the massive burden dissipate—shared among the many people to whom I turned and in whom I confided.
The first time David was hospitalized in a psychiatric unit, there was only myself and my daughter who came daily to visit him. The second time felt totally different. There was a group of family and friends supporting us. There was a virtual signup sheet for visiting hours which filled up quickly. Others offered to bring him treats and books that he requested. When David finally received the treatment that relieved his severe depression, there were volunteers to drive him to Brooklyn and back.
When I opened up to my Israeli friends and family, there were two different kinds of reactions that felt so polarized: Some people said, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. You were always smiling and happy. I had no idea that you were going through something so painful.” Others said, “I’ve noticed that for years and wondered how you were managing. But I didn’t say anything because you didn’t say anything.”
I realized I had deprived myself of their support and love all this time—and exhausted myself trying to hide what was really happening. This experience taught me about the difference between privacy and secrecy. Secrecy carries a heaviness and shame. It can be a tremendous burden. Hiding our secrets can be exhausting. Secrets are hard to carry alone, while privacy means choosing when, where, and with whom to share.
It never fails to astound me when I discover how much lighter I feel after sharing something that has been weighing on my mind. This does not mean that the other person found solutions. It is often enough for them to simply offer true compassion and caring.
Bringing Pain into the Light
In August 2025, a standup comedian in Israel named Udi Kagan did something very brave. He electrified the country with a raw 21-minute monologue revealing his battle with his helem kerav, combat-related PTSD (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3sVqhVJYSzk). He softened the narrative with notes on the piano in the background, alternately moving his audience to laughter and to tears. His pain was raw and palpable. For years, he tried to battle his panic attacks alone—with alcohol and very hard drugs. Eventually, he asked for help. And—in his words—“help came very quickly, and with love.”
Udi came out of the dark closet of mental illness and bared his soul and his story to the world. At the end, he left his audience with this message: “PTSD grows in darkness, in shame, in silence, when we don’t speak about it. … But it dies quickly in the light, and we are
the light.”
Udi wove a tapestry of heartbreak and hope, giving voice to wounds long hidden in silence. His story went viral overnight and stands as a beacon of light and hope in the dark world of emotional trauma and illness.
The central line in the Mi Sheberakh L’Ḥolim Ul’Ḥolot, the prayer for sick people, asks for healing this way: refu’at hanefesh u’refu’at haguf, meaning healing of the soul and healing of the body. It is significant—and quite forward-thinking by today’s standards—to craft a prayer for spiritual and emotional healing of the nefesh (soul) and only then for physical healing of the guf (body). The ancient authors of this universal Jewish prayer knew the importance and consequence of emotional health and well-being, and they weren’t afraid to put that into words.
If you walk away after reading this piece with only one thought, let it be this: If you are dealing with mental illness, you don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t do it alone. You deserve support, compassion, and care.
May we find the courage to speak, the strength to listen, and the compassion to hold each other’s pain—so no one has to carry it alone.