All the light we cannot see

This is a story about depression and finding hope.

It started in adolescence.

I was 12 years old when, in the summer after finishing primary school, my energy began to slip away and my legs grew listless.

I spent entire mornings lying on the floor, unable to complete the simplest tasks.

I didn’t understand what was happening.

My parents thought I might be sick, so I was sent for medical exams. Blood screening. Heart tests.

The doctors couldn’t find anything. I was healthy.

But that’s not how I felt.

Why couldn’t the doctors see the fatigue I was feeling?

What was this invisible weight pressing on me?

When I started high school, my energy returned – briefly. But soon, the fatigue returned. For weeks, I didn’t attend school, wrapped in a blanket at home, my parents growing more and more despondent.

“This isn’t the kid you used to be,” they said.

It wasn’t until after another round of tests that my GP began to suggest my problem wasn’t physical after all. It might be psychological.

I was experiencing depression – a mental illness that autistic children and adults are particularly prone to, often due to social isolation and the challenges of navigating a world not designed for them.

From a young age, the constant struggle to connect and communicate can take a heavy toll on our mental health.

In fact, autistic people are four times more likely than others to develop depression. That’s 4 in 10 autistic adults and 1 in 12 children.

Depression is no laughing matter. It’s not a passing feeling of sadness. It’s a persistent weight.

And the worst thing is: no matter how much love surrounds you, depression is a battle you fight alone – in your own mind.

Even when people are near, you feel separate. You want to laugh, you want to cry – but you feel cut off from your emotions. It’s the loneliest feeling.

I continued to experience depressive episodes throughout adulthood. Only in the past decade have my mood and energy stabilized, along with a newfound sense of self-acceptance and purpose in life.

Looking back on my journey, I hope that future generations of autistic children will receive the right understanding and support they need earlier on.

Because while many limitations that come with being autistic may be lifelong, depression shouldn’t be one of them.

Recently, as I walked along the coast of Jersey, listening to U2’s ‘Song for Someone,’ I cried in silence because I felt incredibly grateful for no longer battling depression.

It was then, just minutes before sunset, that light broke through the thick blanket of clouds, casting a golden glow across the horizon.

The song’s lyrics seemed perfect for the moment – and for anyone who needs to hear them:

“There is a light, you can’t always see. And there is a light, don’t let it go out.”