E hoa – “I See You”

The Invisible Weight

Depression is a strange kind of suffering. It doesn’t demand attention the way physical pain does. It doesn’t knock you off your feet in a

way that others can see. Instead, it seeps. It dulls. It turns everything down a bit, colours, sounds, emotions, energy. It doesn’t slam the door shut; it just quietly locks it while you’re too numb to notice.

Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) isn’t just sadness. It’s not about feeling “down” or “blue” or needing a motivational quote to get back on

track. It’s a system failure. A shutting down. A quiet erosion of the self, so slow and imperceptible that even you don’t realise how much of yourself has gone missing.

People think depression is about feeling too much, but often, it’s the opposite. It’s the feeling of less. Less motivation. Less hope.

Less belief that anything will change. Less connection to the world around you. It flattens everything. Even pain, which at least reminds you that you’re alive, starts to feel distant, like it belongs to someone else.

And worst of all? Less being seen.

Because depression doesn’t just isolate; it makes you invisible. It erases you in real-time. You become a ghost in your own life,

moving through the motions, answering when spoken to, showing up where expected; but never really there. The world keeps going, but you feel like a blurred outline of yourself, technically existing, but no longer present.

That’s what makes it so insidious. Not just the suffering itself, but the way it disconnects you from the very things that might save

you. The way it convinces you that you are too far gone, too distant, too heavy to be pulled back.

E Hoa, “I See You”

And that is where e hoa comes in.

Because when you are disappearing, the first step back is not fixing, not solving, not even believing; but being seen. Being acknowledged. Having someone, anyone, stand at the edge of that fog and say, I see you. You are still here. Not in a grand, dramatic intervention. Not in a forced, surface-level way. Just in a small, quiet moment of recognition.

Because sometimes, that’s all it takes. Not to fix everything. But to crack the darkness just enough for something else to slip through.

The Māori phrase e hoa translates to "friend" or "mate," but it carries a weight that the English equivalent doesn’t quite hold. It’s not just about familiarity or social closeness. To me it is and was about recognition, a moment of real seeing, not just with the eyes but

with the heart. It’s I see you in the deepest way. Not just I see you standing there, but I see who you are. I see the weight you carry, even if you can’t name it. I see the way life has pressed itself upon you. I see the pieces of you that feel unseen, abandoned, left to wither in silence. And when you are buried under the suffocating weight of MDD, that is the one thing that can still get through.

Because depression is not just pain…….it is absence.

It is the slow erasure of self, the quiet retreat into a world where you no longer believe your presence matters. It doesn’t just

isolate you from others; it convinces you that even if you vanished, the world would simply rearrange itself around the space you once occupied.

It whispers: You are fading. No one notices. No one will care.

But then, something happens. A moment, a word, a recognition. E hoa.

To hear those words, spoken with intent, not flippantly, not as small talk, but with real presence, is to be recalled back into the world.

It is not a solution. It does not pull you to your feet, does not erase the exhaustion, does not lift the weight entirely. But it does

something else, something just as crucial.

It cuts through the numbness.

It reminds you, in a way that nothing else can, that even if you cannot see yourself clearly anymore….. someone else still does.

That even if you feel lost, you have not disappeared entirely.

That even if you cannot find your own worth, someone else knows it exists.

That even if you are drowning, someone else is reaching.

E hoa.

A call across the fog. A hand resting on the shoulder of a ghost. A quiet, steady voice saying:

You are still here.

And for someone standing at the edge of themselves, that can be the first crack in the darkness.

The Lie That Depression Tells

Depression is a masterful liar. It does not shout; it whispers. It does not confront; it seeps. It is subtle, insidious, patient. It

does not strike all at once but wears you down, slowly, quietly, until its voice becomes indistinguishable from your own.

It tells you:

You are a burden.

Everything you do, everything you need, everything you are is too much for others to hold. They tolerate you, but they do not truly want

you here. You are weight, dragging them down. You should make it easier for them…..by disappearing.

You are failing.

No matter what you do, it is never enough. You are behind, you are inadequate, you are stumbling while everyone else is moving forward.

You are proof that some people just don’t make it.

You are too much and not enough at the same time.

Too emotional, too quiet, too distant, too needy, too cold, too broken, too lost. And yet somehow, never enough to be loved fully, to be

wanted completely, to feel like you truly belong.

No one notices. No one cares.

Your absence would ripple for a moment, but the world would adjust. You would dissolve, and life would go on.

It rewires your thinking so that even when people reach out, you doubt their sincerity. It makes kindness feel like pity. It makes love feel

like obligation. It makes warmth feel like a trick, something given out of duty, not genuine care.

It makes you question every good thing until only the doubt remains.

And the cruelest part? It convinces you that you are alone.

That no one else feels this way. That even if people understand depression in theory, they don’t understand this, the particular,

unbearable weight of yours.

And yet.

Here is the thing depression doesn’t want you to know.

It is lying.

Because if depression has convinced you that you are alone, then ask yourself:

Who do you think wrote these words?

Who do you think knew exactly what that voice sounds like?

Who do you think has walked through that same numb fog, has fought against that same slow unraveling?

Who do you think painted crimson lines to see if they still feel?

Depression is not a unique affliction, it is a deeply human one.

Which means: you are not alone in it.

Which means: you are seen, even when you cannot see yourself.

Which means: no matter what it tells you, you are still here.

And as long as you are still here, there is still more to see

What It Means to Be Seen

Being seen doesn’t mean being fixed. It doesn’t mean someone swooping in with a solution, offering platitudes, flooding you with empty

reassurance, telling you to “just stay positive” or “snap out of it.” It’s the opposite of that.

To be seen in the midst of depression is not to be rescued, but to be witnessed.

It’s someone sitting beside you, quietly, saying:

E hoa. I see you.

You don’t have to explain.

You don’t have to be okay.

I’m here.

It’s not a demand. Not pressure to feel better, to be functional, to return to who you used to be.

It’s permission to exist exactly as you are, without justification.

Depression tells you that you are invisible. That your suffering is unnoticed. That the world is moving on without you, that you are

already gone in every way except physically.

But to be seen? Truly seen? That is proof that you are still here.

Not just surviving. Not just existing in the periphery. But real, felt, present in someone else’s world……..even when you cannot feel

yourself.

That is what breaks the spell of depression.

Not instant cures. Not big gestures.

Just small moments of recognition.

A name spoken with warmth.

A message that doesn’t ask for a response.

A hand on your shoulder.

A friend who doesn’t fill the silence.

Little things. Tiny interruptions in the void.

Moments that do not demand change but quietly insist:

You are still here.

You matter.

The Path Back

MDD is not something you can “snap out of.” It is not a mindset problem. It is not a question of willpower. It is a rewiring of the brain. A numbing of the nervous system. A slow erosion of vitality. It does not simply “pass” because someone tells you it should. It does not leave just because you are tired of carrying it.

Depression places weights around your ankles, not to teach you a lesson, not to punish you, but because that is simply how it works. And

those weights? They don’t just disappear.

But here’s the thing about being seen: it doesn’t remove the weights, but it reminds you they aren’t all there is.

It reminds you that even if you don’t see a future, someone else does.

Even if you don’t feel worth saving, someone else knows you are.

Even if you are drowning, someone else is reaching.

They cannot take the pain away. They cannot lift you to your feet. But they can remind you that you are not alone in the dark.

And sometimes, that is all it takes to begin.

Not to be healed. Not to be whole.

Just to stay.

To stay long enough for the weight to shift.

To stay long enough for the numbness to loosen its grip.