Breaking the Stigma: Confronting Depression’s Hidden Struggles

By John Bosco Birungi

In today’s world where everybody seems to be so busy chasing their goals and dreams to fulfill their life aspirations, there has been an assumption in the society that as an individual being okay is based on the car you drive, the clothing you wear, place of residence, mobile phone you use, the places you hangout in, the caliber of people in your social circle among many other society standards.

This form of societal pressure has negatively impacted many individuals, especially the youth, who are living under very harsh and unfavourable economic times, with many of them having no employment or stable income. This trend has made many become stuck in both micro and macro debt as they opt to borrow money so as to be able to sustain their livelihoods or start up small enterprises with the hope of breaking even. However, due to the current unfavourable economic conditions, most of these startups are never able to live up to the expectations of their founders, which leaves them frustrated and heavily indebted, leading to depression.

As a means of coping with the depression, many opt for alcohol and narcotics to help them forget the ongoing difficulties, which eventually makes them addicts to the substances they use to cope with depression. From the society’s perspective these individuals that are living and coping with depression are subjected to criticism, rejection and are usually labelled as failures, wasted individuals and are considered social misfits which worsens the extent of the depression.

Barigye Alex

(Not real names)

a youth who has a corporate career shares his experience about the pressure to be okay and how he was able to overcome society’s stigma towards depression.

My name is Barigye Alex, and for the longest time, I was a master of disguise who always wore a smile when the heart is breaking, who laughed loudly while silently falling apart. For years, I carried a weight that no one could see and few would have understood even if they had. I was depressed—but I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know if I was even allowed to say it.


I was


suffocating from societal expectations and my own belief in the fear of judgment and the immense pressure to keep up appearances.


I was and I am still the dependable brother/ friend. On social media, I posted motivational quotes like I had life all figured out. But inside? I was drowning.


Depression isn’t always looking like tears in the dark but sometimes, it looks like forcing laughter when your soul feels empty. Sometimes, it’s scrolling through your contacts, realizing you have no one to call because “What would they think?”

I excelled in school, navigating the competitive academic landscape of Kampala with relative ease which landed me a respectable job in finance, a coveted position that promised security, status, and a comfortable life. I was living in a decent apartment in a good neighborhood, a reliable car, and a circle of vibrant friends with whom I’d share laughter and ambitious dreams over plates of Tilapia and bottles of Nile Special. On the surface, I was the epitome of success: a sharp suit, a confident smile, a quick wit, a man who seemed to have it all figured out. My friends admired my drive, my family was immensely proud, and I was, by all accounts, “doing well.” I was the one people came to for advice, the reliable one, the one who always had it together.

Where I come from, you are expected to be strong. Especially as a man. Especially if you seem to be doing “well” on the outside. People would say things like, “You are so lucky,” or “You have no reason to be sad.” And I believed them. I thought if I had no visible cause for despair, then I must be ungrateful, weak, or simply broken. So I smiled and I worked harder.

I would force myself to laugh louder at jokes, volunteer for extra tasks at work, even plan outings with friends, all to convince myself, and more importantly, everyone else, that I was fine. I stayed cheerful at parties, pretended to have interest in conversations, and offer advice I no longer believed in. The pressure to be okay wasn’t just external; it was deeply internalized, in my own head. Admitting I wasn’t okay felt like admitting failure, like betraying the very essence of who I was supposed to be—the strong, successful Barigye Alex. The thought of my parents’ disappointment, my friends’ confusion, or worse, their pity, was unbearable. I imagined the hushed conversations: “Did you hear about Alex? He’s not well. Such a promising young man, what a shame.” The shame was a heavier weight than the depression its self.

Mornings became a struggle where the simple act of getting out of bed felt like lifting a mountain, my mind, once sharp and analytical, became a foggy and chaotic mess, where thoughts would race loud to a halt, leaving me feeling empty and numb. Concentration at work became impossible my brain would refuse to connect the dots. Decisions, even basic ones like what to eat for lunch or what shirt to wear, became agonizing, consuming vast amounts of mental energy I simply didn’t have. My apartment, once a sanctuary, became a tomb, its walls closing in on me. At work my performance, once excellent, began to suffer dramatically. I missed deadlines, made careless errors, and my usual proactive approach was replaced by a reactive, barely-there presence.

One Friday evening


after another day of pretending to be functional, of forcing smiles, pretending to show interest in office and nodding vaguely at my friends’ exciting plans, I found myself staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes, usually bright and full of life, were hollow and distant reflecting nothing but a profound emptiness. My smile felt like a distorted fake smile of despair. A wave of despair washed over me, so strong that it stole my breath, pressing down on my chest until I felt I couldn’t inhale, as if an invisible weight was crushing me. It wasn’t just sadness; it was an absence of feeling, a profound emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole, and a black hole in my soul. The world outside felt distant, silenced, as if I were underwater, observing life from behind a thick, soundproof glass. I thought about just… stopping. Stopping everything. The thought was terrifying, yet strangely comforting in its irreversibility, a promise of release from the relentless agony. That was my breaking point. The mask had shattered, and I was left exposed, shivering in the cold, harsh reality of my unravelling. I collapsed onto the cold bathroom tiles, tears I hadn’t known I had streaming down my face, suppressed grief and pain. It was a powerful cry, a releasing months and possibly years of silent suffering.

I don’t know what made me do it, but that night, instead of retreating further into sorrow, I picked up my phone. My fingers hovered over my best friend, Ronald’s, number. Ronald, who always seemed to know when something was off, even when I tried my hardest to hide it. He was the kind of friend who saw through the boldness and confidence, who felt the changes and shifts in my energy, who had a quiet, persistent way of showing he cared. I typed out a message, then deleted it. “I’m not feeling well.” Too vague. “I’m struggling.” Too vulnerable, too much like the weakness I dreaded. Finally, with a shaky breath while my thumb was trembling, I typed, “Ronald, I think I need help. I’m not okay. I really, really need help.” It felt like pulling off a bandage from a healing wound and exposing it raw flesh to the air. The fear of his reaction was immense, but the desperation was greater.

The response was immediate. “Alex? What’s wrong? I’m coming over. Don’t move. I’m on my way.” Within twenty minutes, I heard his knock on my door. When Ronald arrived, he didn’t question, he didn’t judge. He didn’t offer platitudes like “just pray about it” or “be strong.” He didn’t tell me to “man up.” He just sat with me, his presence was like a comforting anchor in my storm, a silent testament to his unwavering support. He simply listened, his gaze steady and compassionate. I stumbled through my confession, the words catching in my throat, tears I hadn’t known I had finally streaming down my face, soaking my shirt. I told him about the crushing fatigue, the pervasive numbness, and the dark thoughts that whispered promises of oblivion. I told him about the mask, the constant performance, the utter exhaustion of pretending. He sat there, silent, his hand occasionally resting on my shoulder, a grounding touch. When I finished, hoarse and emotionally drained, he simply said, “Thank you for telling me, Alex. You’re not alone. This is an illness, not a weakness. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

Those words, “You’re not alone,” were a lifeline. They were simple, yet they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. Ronald, being a much realistic individual, immediately started researching. He found a reputable mental health clinic in Kampala, one with psychiatrists and psychologists, and helped me book an appointment. The initial thought of seeing a “shrink” filled me with dread. What would they think? Would they lock me up? Would my family find out? The stigma was still a powerful force.

The first few sessions with Dr. Anderson (not real names), a warm and empathetic psychiatrist, were awkward, even painful. It felt unnatural to dissect my deepest, darkest feelings with a stranger. I was guarded, hesitant, still trying to maintain some semblance of control. The initial consultation was overwhelming, with many questions about my sleep, appetite, mood, thoughts of self-harm, family history. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and a part of me still wanted to run, to retreat back into my safe, silent misery.

But Dr. Anderson was patient, understanding, and incredibly professional. He explained, in clear, compassionate terms, that depression wasn’t a choice or a weakness; it was a complex illness, often involving chemical imbalances in the brain, genetic predispositions, and environmental factors. It was a medical condition, just like diabetes or hypertension. “Your brain chemistry can be affected, Alex,” He explained gently, drawing diagrams to illustrate neural pathways. “It’s not about willpower. It’s about a disruption in how your brain processes emotions and signals. Just as your heart can have a problem, your brain can too.”

This was a crucial piece of information, a key that began to unlock the shackles of shame. It wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t defective. I was sick, and sickness could be treated. Therapy became my sanctuary. Dr. Anderson recommended a combination of medication and psychotherapy. The medication, an antidepressant, took a few weeks to kick in, and the side effects were unpleasant at first – nausea, dizziness, a strange metallic taste. I almost gave up, convinced it wasn’t working. But Dr. Anderson encouraged me to persevere, adjusting the dosage until we found what worked.

Gradually, a change occurred, the constant dull ache in my chest lessened. The impenetrable fog in my mind began to lift, revealing glimpses of clarity. I could think more clearly, focus for longer periods. I learned about cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), which helped me identify and challenge the negative thought patterns that had become so ingrained. I started to understand the vicious cycle: negative thoughts lead to negative feelings, which lead to negative behaviours, reinforcing the initial thoughts. Breaking that cycle was hard work, like re-wiring my brain, but it was incredibly empowering. I learned to recognise the triggers, the warning signs, and to develop coping mechanisms, such as mindfulness exercises and controlled breathing techniques.

I also learned about self-care, not as a luxury, but as a necessity. Small things at first: taking a deliberate walk in the evening, feeling the cool breeze on my skin, listening to my favorite RNB music of 2000s, journaling my thoughts, even if they were just fragmented sentences, emptying my mind onto paper. Gradually, I started to reintegrate into life, but this time, with a newfound awareness and a commitment to authenticity. I started exercising again, not to punish myself, but to feel the strength and vitality returning to my body. I reconnected with friends, explaining, in broad terms, that I had been going through a difficult time with my health.

The journey wasn’t linear. There were days, weeks even, when the grey filter would descend again. The fatigue would return, the motivation would wane, and the dark whispers would try to creep back in, testing my resolve. These relapses were disheartening, making me feel like I was back at square one. “Why is this happening again? Am I failing? Will I ever truly be well?” But Dr. Anderson had prepared me for this. “Healing isn’t a straight line, Alex,” he had said. “It’s a winding path with ups and downs. Progress isn’t always visible. The important thing is to keep walking, to acknowledge the dip, and to use the tools you’ve learned. A relapse is not a failure; it’s an opportunity to practice your coping skills.” And I did. I leaned on Ronald who rallied around me with surprising understanding. I learned to be kinder to myself, to acknowledge the bad days without letting them define me I also started talking.

Not just to Ronald or Dr. Anderson, but to other friends, to colleagues I trusted. I began to share my experience, cautiously at first, testing the waters. I would say, “I’ve been going through a tough time with my mental health,” or “I’ve been learning a lot about depression and how common it is.” And what I discovered was astonishing. So many people had their own stories, their own struggles, often hidden behind their own masks of “being okay.” A colleague confessed to battling anxiety for years, secretly taking medication. Another shared his quiet struggle with postpartum depression, feeling immense guilt. The more I spoke, the more others opened up, creating a ripple effect of vulnerability and connection. The stigma, I realised, thrives in silence. It feeds on the fear of judgment, on the belief that you are the only one, that your suffering is unique and shameful. But when you break that silence, when you share your truth, even just a little, you create space for others to do the same. You put away at the wall of shame, brick by painful brick.

This is why I’m sharing my story with you now. Because the pressure to be okay is immense, especially in societies like ours where mental health is still shrouded in misunderstanding, superstition, and prejudice. People often confuse depression with sadness, dismissing it as something you can “get over” with a strong will or a change of attitude. They might say, “Just cheer up,” or “Think positive thoughts,” or “You have so much to be grateful for, why are you sad?” not realizing that it’s a complex illness that requires professional intervention, just like any other medical condition. It’s not a character flaw; it’s a health issue that impacts millions globally, regardless of their background, success, or faith. It affects your brain, your body, and your ability to function. It can steal your joy, your energy, and your very sense of self.

From Barigye’s experience we need to challenge the stigma, not just for ourselves, but for future generations. We need to create environments where it’s okay not to be okay, where seeking help is seen as a sign of strength, not weakness. We need to educate ourselves and others that depression is real and most importantly, it’s treatable. We need to learn to listen without judgment, to offer empathy instead of demeaning statements such as “I’m here for you,” instead of “What’s wrong with you?” We need to understand that a smile can hide a universe of pain, and that the strongest people are often those brave enough to admit they need help. It’s about normalizing the conversation, making it as acceptable to talk about mental health as it is to talk about a broken leg or a fever. This can be done through online engagements where education about mental health can be done. To further normalize mental health discussions recovery stories from previous mental health challenged individuals can be shared to give hope to the existing patients and also create more awareness and acceptability in society.

Together lets create an environment that fosters togetherness and wellness for all by being each other’s keeper.