One Friday morning in April 2011, my husband Rick and I went on our usual walk through our country-road neighborhood before we each headed off to work. During our then 28-year marriage, it was typical for me to walk Rick to his car, peck his cheek or touch my lips briefly to his before he drove away. This day was no different that way. I then went to my job—an overnight weekend caring for a developmentally disabled adult.

Saturday, Rick was served with divorce papers.

Sunday was Easter.

Correct, I did not leave him kindly. Let’s say I was passive-aggressive. I blamed him for another perceived financial stress. But after being apart from Rick for five months, the reality is I couldn’t make it on my own. I asked to return, and he took me back.

Two days later, beginning in mid-September 2011, I spent thirty days in three different California psychiatric hospitals diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety. Most of my hospital experiences were not good, even though Rick visited me every day, accompanied by my mother, who had temporarily moved from Florida during my hospitalization. Mom stayed through December, feeding my undernourished, 109-pound frame and quietly keeping me company.

Family and friends wanted to know what they could do to help. But initially, all that concern didn’t matter much to me. Though my hospital experiences were rough, at least for Rick and my mother, the hospitals kept me safe. From whom?

From myself.

This is the story of my long, arduous slog with depression through what truly felt like the valley of the shadow of death—and for a time where I did fear evil.1 (Psalm 23:4)

Today I am thriving and flourishing, for I did eventually find hope on the other side. And my hope is that you will, too!