From Shadows to Light: A Teacher’s Journey Through Depression and Anxiety

by Charlene Trino

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

Sunlight poured through my bedroom window that morning, but I couldn’t muster the energy to get up. The year was 2019, and I was in bed for what felt like an eternity—I had lost track of time. My nightstand was cluttered with empty coffee cups and plates with half-eaten meals– quiet reminders of how I had cut myself off from everything and everyone. At 32, I used to take pride in my role as a high school teacher and debate team coach; always ready to motivate others and stand with confidence in front of a room full of bright students. Now, I couldn’t even motivate myself to take a shower.

The process of falling into deep depression and anxiety took time. Looking back, I can see the small cracks that grew into big gaps. It began with little changes—missing due dates, backing out of plans with friends, finding reasons to skip faculty meetings. I convinced myself I was just worn out, that teaching drained you, that everyone felt this way from time to time. But under these explanations, a more serious problem was growing.

The panic attacks started in my sixth year of teaching. The first one struck during a parent-teacher conference. While I was talking about a student’s progress, my heart began to pound, my eyesight got fuzzy, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I had to excuse myself and barely made it to the bathroom before I fell against the wall. I struggled to breathe and thought I was having a heart attack. The school nurse found me there twenty minutes later. I was still trembling, and my shirt was drenched in sweat.

“You’re having a panic attack,” she said as she helped me to her office. “Have you been feeling stressed?”

The question seemed ridiculous. Of course I felt stressed—I was a teacher. We’re all stressed. But this was different, and I knew it deep down. The panic attacks grew more common hitting out of nowhere during class talks, teacher meetings even while shopping for groceries. Each time one struck, I felt more exposed and more scared about when the next one would come.

Depression seeped into my life like a dense mist dimming everything that once brought me happiness. The debate team I’d led to state victories turned into a crushing responsibility. The lively classroom talks I used to run with zeal now seemed like huge obstacles. I began to take more sick days, using up my time off as fast as I earned it. I’m sure my students saw the difference. Once after class, one of my debate team captains stayed behind and asked quietly, “Are you okay? You seem… different lately.” Her concern only intensified my feelings of inadequacy—their once-lively teacher appeared aloof and unfocused; just going through the motions without the energy that used to make learning exciting.

The tipping point arrived during a local debate competition. These events had always excited me—the mental test, the thrill of rivalry, the satisfaction of watching my pupils shine. But that day, as I stood in the packed auditorium, I experienced the well-known constriction in my chest, the speeding thoughts, the all-consuming feeling of impending disaster. Even before the first round kicked off, I rushed to my vehicle, phoned for a replacement, and drove home in a fog. I never went back to school after that day. The principal called me repeatedly over the next few days, leaving increasingly concerned voicemails. The school counselor even showed up at my apartment, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer the door. How could I explain what I didn’t understand myself? Eventually, the school district sent a formal letter requesting my resignation or return, and I chose the path of least resistance.

The following months blurred into a series of doctor visits, therapy appointments, and unsuccessful medication trials. Every morning, I’d wake up thinking, “This day will be different,” to find anxiety and depression paralyzing me. Checking my email became an impossible challenge. Friends quit calling after I canceled too many plans. My partner at the time couldn’t grasp what I was experiencing and walked out, leaving only a note that said, “I can’t watch you fade away anymore.” Reading those words felt like a physical blow—confirmation of what I already feared: I was too broken, too much work, too far gone for even love to withstand. In that moment, I believed I truly was alone.

It was my younger sister, Sarah, who broke through the barriers I had put up around myself. She came to my apartment one day carrying groceries and showing resolve. “That’s it,” she declared, pulling open the curtains I’d kept shut for weeks. “We’re getting you assistance—real assistance this time.”

Sarah had her own past with mental health issues, a topic we hadn’t really talked about before. She told me about her battle with anxiety during her college years, how she’d found the right therapist, the right pills, and most importantly of all, the right group of people to support her. “Needing help doesn’t make you weak,” she explained to me. “It makes you human.”

Thanks to Sarah’s push, I connected with a therapist who focused on CBT and anxiety issues. Dr. Martinez didn’t just tackle my symptoms; she showed me how my perfectionism needs to control, and mental health all tied together. We dug into years of built-up stress and hidden trauma, including my mom’s death during my college years—something I’d never dealt with.

The road to getting better wasn’t straight. I faced obstacles, times when sadness felt just as heavy, and moments when fear grabbed me with its usual strength. But, in a way that was hard to notice at first, things started to shift. I figured out what set me off and came up with ways to deal with those triggers that helped. I used to think meditation was just “hippie stuff,” but it became something I did every day to stay centered. Getting out for regular exercise even if it was just quick strolls around my area, helped clear away the haze of my low mood.

A major turning point occurred when I signed up for a support group for teachers struggling with mental health issues. This group provided a secure environment where I met others who grasped the distinct pressures of teaching, its emotional demands, and its potential impact. Their experiences showed me I wasn’t on my own and that asking for help didn’t mean I had failed as a professional.

In one key meeting, another teacher shared an insight that struck a chord: “We tell our students to be gentle with themselves, to seek help when necessary, to celebrate their growth instead of dwelling on their shortcomings. Why can’t we show ourselves the same understanding?”

Those words changed the course of my recovery. I started treating myself with the same kindness I always showed my students. Rather than seeing my mental health issues as personal shortcomings, I began to see them as chances to learn and grow.

As I got better, I felt drawn to speak up about mental health in schools. I began looking into how common anxiety and depression are among teachers, and found out I wasn’t alone in what I went through. The numbers showed that teachers face mental health problems much more often than most people, but many don’t get help because they’re afraid of what others might think.

In 2021, two years after my breakdown, I chose not to go back to teaching in classrooms. This wasn’t easy. I found a new way to use my love for education—I created programs to help teachers understand mental health better. I teamed up with nearby school districts and started giving workshops about teacher well-being. In these sessions, I shared my own story and gave useful tips on how to handle stress and keep a healthy mind in the tough world of teaching.

The contrast struck me—I used to be the teacher who kept her mental health issues under wraps, but now I found myself in front of groups of educators talking about anxiety, depression, and why taking care of yourself matters. This time, as I stood at the podium, I didn’t put on the perfect act I once did. Instead, I showed genuine openness that comes from embracing every part of who you are, including your struggles.

One of my proudest moments happened after a workshop when a young teacher came up to me with tears in her eyes. “I thought I was alone,” she said. “I’ve felt this way for months but was scared to tell anyone. I thought it meant teaching wasn’t for me.”

Her words took me back to my own path and showed how crucial it is to speak up about mental health in education. My workshops have put me in touch with hundreds of teachers who tell similar stories—committed educators trying to find a balance between their love for teaching and their mental health needs.

Now, at 35, my life looks quite different from what I pictured when I began teaching. Although I don’t face a classroom of students anymore, I’ve discovered new ways to have an impact. I still experience days when anxiety sneaks up on me when depression tries to drag me down. But these days, I possess the tools, support network, and self-knowledge to handle these obstacles without allowing them to shape my identity.

I’ve discovered that recovering doesn’t mean going back to who you were before mental health problems. It involves growing into a tougher, smarter, and kinder person because of what you’ve been through. My experience has shown me that being open about your feelings isn’t a sign of weakness, asking others to help you isn’t failing, and our biggest challenges often lead us to make our most meaningful contributions.

Not long ago, I launched a podcast titled “Teachers’ Mental Health Matters.” This show gives educators a platform to tell their stories and find helpful resources. The feedback has been huge proving what I’ve thought for a while—many people out there need to know they’re not the only ones dealing with these issues.

As I write this, I sit in my home office. Thank-you notes from workshop participants and photos from support group meetings surround me. I feel a strong sense of purpose. My mental health journey has been tough, but it has guided me to where I need to be. I share my story. I see recognition in someone’s eyes. I get a message from a teacher who asked for help. These moments remind me that our darkest times can turn into beacons of hope for others.

To anyone reading this who might be struggling—especially my fellow educators—remember that asking for help shows wisdom, not weakness. Your challenges don’t lessen your value or your ability to impact the world. At times, they might even guide you to your true purpose.

Getting better isn’t a final stop; it’s an ongoing path of self-discovery, acceptance, and personal growth. While I may not teach like I used to, I’ve become something just as important—living proof that you can rebuild a meaningful life after mental illness. Through this rebuilding, I’ve discovered a new way to educate, inspire, and make a difference—not in spite of my mental health issues, but because of them.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR / EDITOR: Gabriel Nathan | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman