How Did We Get Here
A podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
How Did We Get Here
Echoes of Silence — The Reality of Invisible Struggles
Episode 19 takes a closer look at the quiet struggles we don’t always see — the internal battles, the weight of unspoken pain, and the limits of what “being there” can fix.
Jim shares an honest, grounded perspective on what silence can do to a person, and why connection matters even when we don’t have the answers.
What part stayed with you? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
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🎙 How Did We Get Here? — a podcast about the choices, cracks & crossroads that shape us.
How Did We Get Here? — real stories about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
Have you ever sat alone —
not depressed,
not broken —
but shaken so hard by life that you didn’t know what to do next?
I have.
I won’t walk you through the room.
I won’t paint a picture I’m not willing to share.
But I will tell you this:
Silence can be a dangerous place.
Not because it’s peaceful —
but because it gives your mind room to whisper things you’d never say out loud.
Thoughts that don’t come from who you are,
but from what you’ve been through.
And if you stay in that silence long enough,
you start hearing echoes that feel like truths.
They’re not.
But in the dark, they sound convincing.
This is Echoes of Silence.
People ask sometimes,
“What does depression feel like?”
I don’t know.
I’ve never had it.
And I won’t pretend that I have.
But I have been close enough to the edge —
in those private moments after trauma, loss, and fear —
to understand how someone can get pulled into it.
People assume depression always looks like sadness.
Tears.
Withdrawal.
Sometimes it does.
But other times, it’s quiet.
It’s empty.
It’s the stillness before the storm.
It’s sitting alone with a mind that won’t turn off.
It’s hearing thoughts you don’t recognize as your own.
It’s losing yourself in questions you never meant to ask.
That’s the internal war.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Quiet.
Silent.
Dangerous.
Depression is an illness.
Just like cancer.
Just like diabetes.
Just like any disease that attacks the body and tries to take over a life.
The difference is —
cancer is easier to spot.
Cancer has symptoms people recognize.
There are tests.
There are treatments that work the same way for most people.
There’s a plan.
A path.
A structure.
Depression doesn’t give you that.
What helps one person might not help someone else at all.
And that’s before life adds its own weight —
menopause, aging, exhaustion, financial stress, grief, heartbreak, trauma.
All those pieces stack up like bricks.
And if they’re not treated, acknowledged, or supported,
they don’t go away.
They build.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
Until pain turns into pressure.
And pressure becomes a ticking time bomb inside someone’s chest.
That’s why silence is dangerous.
Not because people are weak —
but because the illness hides in the quiet.
And by the time someone realizes they’re drowning,
they’re already deep underwater.
Let me say something not enough people are willing to admit:
I see this pain every day.
In conversations.
In people I care about.
In people who look completely fine —
but are carrying a storm inside their mind.
And the truth is —
I don’t have the answers.
There’s no magical sentence that snaps someone out of depression.
No conversation that guarantees they’ll feel better tomorrow.
And saying “I understand” only helps if you actually do.
People who live with depression know when you don’t.
They carry a level of pain most of us can’t imagine —
pain that follows them twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week,
without a break.
If you haven’t been in that darkness,
you don’t know what it feels like.
But that doesn’t mean you walk away.
It means you sit with them anyway.
You hold space.
You stay present.
Even when you can’t fix a damn thing.
Because sometimes support isn’t about solving —
it’s about not letting someone disappear into their own silence.
There’s a moment people don’t talk about.
A moment they avoid because it feels too heavy to name.
But silence doesn’t protect you.
It isolates you.
So here it is — plainly:
When someone is hurting deeply enough,
the mind will suggest the unthinkable as if it’s a solution.
Not because they want to die —
but because they want the pain to stop.
Pain changes the rules.
It bends your logic.
It robs your sense of direction.
And here’s something people need to understand:
If someone broke their leg —
snapped it clean —
couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand —
and there were no painkillers,
no cast,
no crutches —
you wouldn’t tell them,
“Come on, get up.
Your leg looks fine to me.
Mine works. Yours should too.”
But that’s exactly what happens with mental illness.
The injury is real —
but you can’t see it.
The pain is constant —
but there’s no cast to sign,
no brace to hold things together.
And because someone looks fine,
the world expects them to walk normally
on a broken mind.
Strong people —
the ones who hold everyone else up —
can find themselves believing they’re out of options
because everyone around them assumes nothing is wrong.
I’ve sat in that quiet after trauma.
I’ve asked myself,
“Do I keep going?”
Not because I wanted to leave this world —
but because the weight was too heavy to carry alone.
Those moments don’t define me.
But I won’t pretend they didn’t shape me.
And if you’ve ever brushed up against that place,
you know how fast silence can pull you under.
Over the years —
in the Air Force,
in law enforcement,
and in life —
I’ve met people who carried battles behind their eyes.
They didn’t look broken.
They didn’t act broken.
They showed up.
They laughed.
They led.
They pushed through.
Until one day —
they didn’t.
People said,
“But they seemed fine.”
Of course they did.
Silence is the strongest mask a human being can wear.
And the heavier the pain,
the quieter some people become.
Not because they don’t want help —
but because they believe their pain is a burden.
Because they think no one will understand.
Because the echoes inside their silence have convinced them they’re alone.
And that lie…
is deadly.
Let me be honest about something else.
I’m not an expert.
I’m not a counselor.
I’m not a medical professional.
And I don’t have any of the answers.
I don’t pretend to.
And here’s the truth:
Sometimes being there isn’t enough.
Sometimes nothing you say,
nothing you do,
nothing you offer
seems to make a difference.
And it’s easy —
so easy —
to throw your hands up and say,
“I can’t do this anymore.”
But I’m telling you now —
you can’t.
Because the moment you stop showing up,
you stop being a lifeline.
And whether you realize it or not —
you are one.
Humans expect to see progress when they’re helping.
We want signs.
We want improvement.
We want proof that what we’re doing matters.
But with depression,
you might not see progress at all.
Sometimes the only progress
is that the person is still here.
And if you’re walking alongside someone fighting this silent war —
that single day
might be the win.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Silence isn’t where healing happens.
Silence is where the mind argues with itself in the dark.
Connection interrupts that argument.
Not in one big moment —
but in small ones.
A check-in.
A message.
A voice.
A simple human presence that says,
“I’m not letting you drift.”
That doesn’t cure depression.
It doesn’t erase trauma.
But sometimes it’s enough
to break the echo
and remind someone
that their thoughts are not telling them the truth.
People don’t fall because they’re weak.
They fall because they’re overwhelmed —
and no one saw the weight they were carrying.
Next time,
we step out of the silence
and into something bigger.
Episode 20 — One World, One Mind
A conversation about what happens when we stop fighting these battles alone
and start lifting each other up —
one human connection at a time.
This is How Did We Get Here? —
a podcast about the choices, cracks, and crossroads that shape us.
I’m Jim Richmond.
And I’m still here for a reason.
Maybe you are too.