The Thing I Couldn't See

The thing about being drained slowly is you don't notice it happening.

I'm normally a cheerful, smiley person. The kind of person who lights up a room without trying, if I may say so myself. So when things started to shift, I didn't recognize it as something wrong. I just thought I was tired.

My apartment got messy. Not "busy week" messy. "I can see the mess and I know I should do something about it but my body won't move" messy. I started rewatching the same TV shows and movies instead of starting anything new. I stopped wanting to do things I used to enjoy. And this heavy, bone-deep tiredness showed up and never left — no matter how much I slept.

But I never once thought the word depression. Not once. That wasn't something that happened to me.

How could it? I'm the crescent-moon-smiley-eyed Valerie.

I was fine. I was just tired. I was just going through a phase.

I have a close friend. We play badminton together every week. We don't do deep conversations. We mostly just roast each other. He's sarcastic about 95% of the time and I give it right back. But underneath all of that there's something solid — the kind of friendship where you don't need to explain yourself because the other person already gets it.

He studied psychology. I used to forget that about him.

We live 15 minutes apart so we'd frequently stopover at each other's places from time to time. He'd seen the state of my apartment and didn't say anything at the time. I think about that a lot now — how he noticed and held it quietly, waiting for the right moment.

Then one night while walking to our bus stops after badminton, I said, "I seriously don't know why I'm always so tired even when I've slept so much." He paused. And in a voice I almost didn't recognise because it had zero sarcasm in it, he said:

"Can I be honest?"

I laughed. "Don't you dare say it's because of I'm getting old."

He didn't laugh back.

"I think you might be borderline depressed."

That one sentence — from the last person I expected it from, at the most unexpected moment — hit me harder than anything a therapist, a podcast, or a self-help book ever could. Because it was honest. And it came from someone who actually knew me.

That Honest Sentence

The Wake Up

I went home that night and googled the symptoms. I sat on my bed reading through the list feeling like someone had written a description of my last I-don't-know-how-many months. The rewatching. The mess. The fatigue that sleep doesn't fix. The loss of interest in things you used to love. The inability to start things. All of it. Every single one.

I booked a therapist that same week. The earliest appointment was three weeks out. It was way too long. So I told my friend — I think you're right, what do I do until then?

He said two things. Start tidying up your space. And write down three things you're thankful for every day. Just slowly. Just a little.

No lecture. No book recommendation. No twelve-step framework. Just two small things I could do that day.

So I did them. I wrote down three things. I cleaned one corner of my apartment. And something shifted. Not dramatically. Not like the movies. More like a window cracked open in a room that had been sealed shut for a long time, and a little bit of air came in.

That was the beginning of my healing.

The Clarity

Once I started healing, I started seeing my life clearly for the first time in years. I could finally feel how much the job had been costing me — not just my energy, but my sense of self. I'd been so numb that I mistook surviving for living.

But I still didn't leave right away. Comfort is powerful. The salary was good. The routine was familiar. I was coasting, and coasting felt safe. I told myself I'd quit for four, maybe five years.

Then came my year-end review. My manager told me he could see my passion wasn't there. He was right. He implied I should move to a different team. But the team I was on was the only reason I'd stayed — they were genuinely good people. And if that was about to change, there was nothing left to hold on to.

So I quit.

No backup plan. No next role lined up. No five-year roadmap.

I felt terrified. And for the first time in years, I felt like myself.

My gut yelled: It's about damn time.

"It's about damn time."

Valerie's gut

What I'm Doing Now

I'm figuring out what comes next — honestly and slowly, without pretending I have it all mapped out.

I have a head full of ideas. A healthy bakery subscription. Wellness retreats. Cultural tours. Mental health advocacy. A podcast. A school one day, maybe. Some days I'd wake up before my alarm rings from excitement. Others, it feels like standing at a crossroad with no signs.

But I'm done building someone else's version of success. Whatever I build next will be mine.

What this Space Is

Valerie Unfolds is where I document the whole messy, honest, unfolding process of starting over. The fear and the freedom. The good days and the days where I stare at the ceiling wondering if I made a terrible mistake. The mental health conversations nobody wants to have. The small wins that don't look like anything from the outside but feel like everything from the inside.

I write a weekly newsletter. I blog about things I can't stop thinking about. And I'm slowly building a corner of the internet that feels like the kind of friend who tells you the truth — gently, but without holding back.

If you're stuck in a life that looks right but feels wrong, I'm right here with you.

Success is Defined By No One But You

Come figure out your definition of success with me.