When Love Meets Depression

The Beginning: A Patient Heart

"We met at a friend's party fifteen years ago," Marc smiles, his eyes brightening as he recalls the memory. "It was the classic 'love at first sight' for me, but not for her. She was in a relationship at that time—not a good one—but I respected that."

His fingers tap lightly on the table as he continues.

"I waited for two years as her friend. When she finally ended her relationship, I gathered my courage to tell her how I felt." He laughs softly. "She pushed me away for three months. Then we started going out again as 'just friends.' After another two months, something changed, and we've been together ever since—twelve years now."

Marc reflects on what sustained his patience during those early days. "When you know someone is special, you wait. There was something in Marie—her kindness, her warm spirit—that was worth waiting for. I never pressured her. I think that's why it eventually worked."

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Building a Life Together

Distance was their biggest test. Marc worked in Selestat while Marie had a position in Munich. For years, they took turns driving five hours each weekend just to see each other. Sometimes they'd only have twenty-four hours together before one of them had to return.

He smiles proudly. "Five years ago, we finally moved into a small apartment together. Last year, we bought our own place here in Selestat. It felt like we had conquered something impossible."

Marie has always been dedicated to her job at a local marketing agency. Marc has always admired her work ethic and creativity. "She puts her heart into everything she does, whether it's designing a brochure or helping a colleague. It's just who she is—thoughtful and dedicated."

His smile fades slightly. "We were happy. Busy, but happy."

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Life Before the Storm

Before depression entered their lives, Marie had an energy that Marc admired deeply. His eyes light up as he describes the woman he fell in love with.

"Marie has always been wonderfully present in everything she does," he says. "She enjoyed her morning walks before work. She made friends easily—at the bakery, with neighbors, or chatting with the elderly couple who run the flower shop. People were just drawn to her genuine warmth."

Her career was stable and fulfilling. She worked hard and cared about doing a good job, taking pride in meeting deadlines and helping her team succeed.

"She was the type of person who could come home from work, suggest we invite neighbors over for an impromptu dinner, and make everyone feel welcome," Marc recalls with admiration. "She'd bake a simple cake for a colleague's birthday, nothing fancy, but always with a thoughtful note that made people feel special."

Their weekends were filled with walks in the nearby countryside, playing board games with friends, or planning for their annual vacation to Lisbon—a city they both fell in love with on their first trip together.

"She kept a little notebook with ideas for our future—places to visit in Portugal, recipes to try, books to read. Nothing extravagant, just simple pleasures she looked forward to."

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The Subtle Shifts

It was three years ago when Marc first noticed something was changing. His expression turns serious, his voice lowering slightly as he describes the subtle signs.

"Small things at first... She stopped going for her morning walks. Her Portuguese language practice app went unused. She'd decline invitations from friends—which wasn't like her at all."

The changes accelerated gradually. The woman who once kept their home tidy began leaving things scattered around. Her enjoyment of cooking gave way to skipped meals or picking at food without interest.

"Then I started coming home and finding her sitting on the bed, crying. When I'd ask what was wrong, she couldn't explain it. That scared me more than anything—Marie has always been able to talk about her feelings."

The birthday cakes for colleagues stopped. The casual dinners with friends ended. Her walking shoes sat unused by the door.

"It was like watching someone slowly disappear right in front of me," Marc says, his voice strained. "The most frightening part was when she stopped talking about future plans. Marie had always looked forward to things, even small ones like a new book release or the spring market. Suddenly, she couldn't think beyond getting through the day."

Marc tried everything he could think of—suggesting short walks, cooking her favorite meals, inviting her closest friend over—but nothing seemed to help. When she lost three kilos in just a few weeks, he knew they needed professional help. They saw her doctor, who referred them to a psychiatrist. That's when she was diagnosed with depression.

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The Moment Everything Changed

Marc is quiet for a long moment when recalling his reaction to the diagnosis. When he speaks again, his voice wavers slightly.

"I've never been an emotional person. I didn't even cry during Titanic—" he smiles weakly, "—which Marie couldn't believe was the first time I'd seen it. But when we got home after that diagnosis, and I saw her sitting there, looking so worried and lost... I broke down."

He swallows hard. "I just held her and cried with her. Her hair got wet from my tears. It was the first time she'd ever seen me cry."

It was the first time he admitted to himself how scared he was. Not of her depression—but of losing her to it. Of not knowing how to help her.

"That's the thing about loving someone. You'd fight anything for them, but... depression isn't something you can see or touch or fight in the usual ways."

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The Unseen Sacrifice

Everything in their lives transformed after Marie's diagnosis. The changes were subtle at first, then all-encompassing.

"Within a month, our entire routine had to be rebuilt from scratch," Marc explains. "Marie reduced her work hours—which was difficult for someone who valued being reliable at her job. I rearranged my schedule to work more flexibly and be home more to accompany her."

Their apartment, once filled with friends and laughter, became quieter. He installed better curtains in the bedroom when she began struggling with sleep. He learned to cook more regularly when Marie lost interest in preparing meals.

"I learned about things I never imagined—how antidepressants work, basic principles of therapy, ways to create a supportive environment." He tried new recipes when Marie mentioned a slight interest in eating. He kept track of her medication schedule, setting silent reminders on his phone without making a fuss about it.

Marc leans forward, his voice dropping as if sharing a secret. "Marie doesn't like to acknowledge her depression. She wants everything to feel normal. So I pretend too. I don't mention therapy or medication unless she brings it up. I don't ask 'how are you feeling today?' every morning. But I've cut back on social gatherings. I stay home instead."

His own interests and hobbies were put on hold. His weekly football games with friends—postponed. The photography walks he enjoyed—set aside. The book club he'd participated in for years—paused with a simple excuse about being busy.

"Our trip to Lisbon—something we both looked forward to each year—Marie simply said she didn't have the energy for it. I didn't push, even though I'd already started looking at comfortable accommodations and relaxed itineraries. I just quietly postponed everything and told her we could go whenever she felt ready."

The financial adjustments have been challenging as well. With Marie working reduced hours, their budget became tighter. The apartment renovation they'd planned became more complex than anticipated, but Marc couldn't bear to add financial stress to Marie's burden, so he began working extra shifts when possible.

This balance is difficult to maintain. Sometimes he worries he's not doing enough. Other times, he worries he's being overprotective. "There's no manual for this," he sighs.

Marc doesn't talk to friends or family about what they're going through. His parents have asked why they see him less frequently; his friends have questioned his constant cancellations. But Marie is private about her condition and wouldn't want others knowing. And honestly, he doesn't want to burden her with his worries when she's already carrying so much.

"I've become an expert at deflection," he admits. "I have a ready collection of excuses that people don't question. Work stress. Renovation problems. Car trouble. Anything to avoid the truth."

He stares into his coffee. "So I handle it alone. Sometimes it feels like I'm carrying two people's emotions—hers and mine. The weight becomes almost unbearable, but what choice do I have? This is what love means to me."

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The Uncertain Journey

Marie's treatment journey has had its ups and downs. The psychiatrist was knowledgeable but could only offer short sessions due to the high number of patients. Marie didn't connect with him completely. Then they found an incredible psychologist—"an absolute angel," as Marc describes her. Marie loved her, and things improved significantly.

His expression clouds. "But there was a relapse after everything started to get better."

"It felt like dropping back into a dark hole. We had been renovating our apartment—sleeping on the floor for months. I keep wondering if that stress triggered it."

Marc runs his hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. "The hardest part is the uncertainty. Is it something I did? Something I didn't do? Will this happen again next month, next year? You start living in a state of constant vigilance, watching for signs."

The situation is exhausting, but Marc's devotion never wavers. "What choice do I have? When you love someone, you don't walk away when things get difficult."

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The Breaking Point

One year into Marie's depression, Marc reached his own crisis. The constant vigilance, the emotional suppression, the physical exhaustion—it all converged one ordinary Tuesday evening.

"I had been holding everything together for so long," he confesses, his voice barely audible. "That evening, Marie was having a particularly difficult day. She couldn't get out of bed, couldn't eat. I sat beside her for hours, just being present, while inside I was screaming."

After Marie finally fell asleep, Marc went to the bathroom, turned on the shower to mask any sound, and broke down completely.

"I slid down against the wall and just sobbed. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. For the first time, I had this terrifying thought: I could just leave. Just get in the car and drive away from all of this." His hands tremble slightly at the memory. "That thought—the fact that it even entered my mind—scared me more than anything. I love Marie more than anything in this world. But in that moment, I couldn't see an end to any of it."

The next morning, Marc looked at himself in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. He had lost weight. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His usually neat appearance had given way to someone who looked perpetually exhausted.

"I realized I was struggling deeply myself. The thought terrified me—what if Marie noticed? She already carried so much guilt about how her condition affected me. If she knew I was suffering too, it would only add to her burden. I couldn't let that happen."

He began experiencing physical symptoms—persistent headaches, trouble sleeping even when he had the opportunity, a constant knot in his stomach. He found himself forgetting simple things, missing deadlines at work. His manager pulled him aside to ask if everything was alright.

"I don't know what to say. I have too many responsibilities to be vulnerable and to admit I cannot take these responsibilities. I in the end said nothing."

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Walking Back from the Edge

Marc realized he was dangerously close to developing depression himself. "I recognized the warning signs because I'd seen them in Marie. The isolation, the exhaustion, the feeling of hopelessness—I was heading down that same path."

This realization became his turning point. "I understood that if I didn't take care of myself, I wouldn't be able to support Marie. More importantly, we might both end up needing care, and where would that leave us?"

Marc developed a strategic approach to preventing his own depression while maintaining his support for Marie:

"First, I created non-negotiable time for myself—just 20 minutes each morning before Marie wakes up. I use this time to meditate or simply enjoy a coffee in silence. This small ritual helps center me for the day ahead."

Physical movement became essential. "I couldn't commit to my old football schedule, but I found ways to incorporate movement into my day. I started cycling to work instead of driving. I do push-ups while waiting for the kettle to boil. Small things, but they make a difference to my mental state."

He also established a support network for himself. "I reconnected with my oldest friend, Thomas, who lives in Lyon. We have a standing phone call every Thursday evening. I'm honest with him about my struggles, and he listens without judgment. Having just one person who knows the full truth has been life-changing."

Sleep became a priority. "I realized I was staying up late to have 'me time' after Marie went to bed, but then I was exhausted the next day. Now I make sure to get at least seven hours of sleep, even if it means some things don't get done."

Perhaps most importantly, Marc learned to manage catastrophic thinking. "When Marie has a bad day, my mind immediately goes to the worst scenarios—'She'll never get better,' 'This is our life forever now.' I've learned to challenge these thoughts by asking myself what evidence I actually have. Usually, there's none. It's just fear talking."

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The Search for Relief

Recognizing he needed more structured help, Marc began searching for support.

"I joined a Facebook support group for family members of people with depression. I could share my feelings there, which offered some relief. But I found I was only telling my story over and over without getting the specific help I needed. People were sympathetic, but their situations were often very different—some were dealing with family members who refused treatment entirely, which wasn't our issue."

He tried several other approaches: anonymous mental health forums where he could share his feelings, peer chat groups, even asking ChatGPT for coping strategies during his lunch breaks at work.

Nothing quite filled the void. The online groups lacked professional guidance. The AI responses, while sometimes helpful, felt impersonal and generic. The peer chats were inconsistent—sometimes supportive, sometimes dominated by the most vocal participants.

"I was still carrying this enormous weight. I needed someone who understood what caregivers go through, someone who could offer more than just sympathy. I needed actual strategies, professional insight, but in a way that wouldn't signal to Marie that I was struggling too."

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Finding Real Support

"One evening, a colleague mentioned Listen. What caught my attention was that you could use it anytime, from anywhere."

Marc registed in the waitlist and got the early access. "I was skeptical at first—I'd tried digital solutions before. But there was something immediately different about Listen. It has a module for caregivers and its approach was warm but professional. It felt like there were actual humans who understood caregiving on the other side of the screen."

He began using it during his lunch breaks and late at night when Marie was asleep. "What surprised me was how responsive it was—not just quick replies, but responses that actually addressed my specific situation. They offered concrete techniques for managing caregiver stress. They validated feelings I hadn't even been able to name."

The cognitive behavioral therapy modules were designed to fit into short time windows—perfect for someone with limited time to themselves. "I could complete a session in fifteen minutes while waiting for Marie at her doctor's appointments. I could practice the techniques while cooking dinner or during my commute."

After seeing the positive changes in Marc, Marie began using Listen as well. "First, I asked her if she wants to try and if she wants, she can share her mood tracking report with me for me to understand her and to be there mentally for her. Furthermore, of course, the continuity between her therapy sessions was game-changing. Instead of waiting weeks between appointments with limited support in between, she had consistent resources available from this wellbeing application whenever she needed them."

Marc's eyes brighten as he explains why having this outlet has been so important: "Because caregivers need to speak their truth somewhere. I can never tell Marie how terrified I am sometimes. I can't tell her about the nights I lie awake watching her breathe. I can't describe the weight in my chest when she has a bad day."

His voice cracks slightly. "I can't tell her that sometimes I feel helpless, or that I worry I'm not enough. Those are my burdens to carry, not hers. Listen became the place where I could unload those burdens without guilt, where I could be honest about my own struggles without feeling like I was somehow making Marie's depression about me."

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Marc's Advice to Fellow Caregivers

Marc has developed wisdom through his experience that he's eager to share with others in similar situations:

"First, recognize that your health matters too. It's not selfish to take care of yourself—it's necessary. If you become ill, who will be there for your loved one? Make your wellbeing a priority."

He emphasizes the importance of boundaries. "Set clear limits on what you can realistically handle. I've learned to say, 'I can help you with this, but not with that right now.' It was hard at first, but it actually helps Marie know what to expect from me."

"Find small joys every day," he continues. "For me, it's the first sip of coffee in the morning, or feeling the sun on my face during my bike ride to work. These tiny moments of pleasure keep you connected to life outside of caregiving."

Marc also stresses the importance of education. "Learn about depression, but don't obsess over it. Understanding the condition helps you separate the person from the illness. When Marie lashes out or withdraws, I remind myself it's the depression speaking, not her."

"Practice radical acceptance," he advises. "Some days will be terrible despite your best efforts. Accept that you can't fix everything, and that progress isn't linear. This mindset has saved me countless hours of self-blame."

He believes in celebrating small victories. "When Marie gets dressed or makes a phone call—things that seem trivial to others—I recognize these as significant achievements. Acknowledging these small steps forward helps both of us see progress."

Perhaps most importantly, Marc emphasizes connection. "Find at least one person you can be completely honest with about your struggles. For me, it's my friend Thomas. For others, it might be a therapist, a support group, or an app like Listen. But don't try to carry this alone."

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The Hidden Reality of Caregiving

Marc wants others to understand that caregivers are fighting a battle too—just a different one. "We're not the ones with depression, but we're in the trenches alongside our loved ones. We experience a different kind of pain."

He gestures to the people around us in the café. "I look like everyone else. I go to work, I shop for groceries, I make dinner. Nobody sees that I'm also constantly calculating medication schedules, watching for symptoms, planning activities that might help without seeming like they're 'therapeutic.'"

The loneliness is the hardest part. "Depression already isolates the person experiencing it. But it also isolates the caregiver. You can't fully share your experience with your partner—they already feel guilty about 'being a burden,' though they never are. And you can't easily explain it to others who haven't lived it."

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Hope and Persistence

Despite the challenges, Marc finds hope in the small moments. "When Marie laughs genuinely at something. When she makes plans for the future. When she has enough energy to cook again—something she's always enjoyed."

He smiles. "Last week, she suggested we plan our trip to Lisbon in this autum. That's huge. It means she can see a future again."

His advice to other caregivers supporting someone with depression is clear: "Find your own support system—whether it's therapy, an app like Listen, or a friend who understands. You cannot pour from an empty cup."

He pauses. "And remember that your loved one is still there, beneath the depression. On her darkest days, I remind myself that this wonderful woman who loved walking through Portuguese markets and trying new pastries hasn't disappeared. She's fighting to find her way back."

As our time together concludes, Marc checks his phone one more time. A text from Marie. His face relaxes with visible relief—she's had a good therapy session. As he prepares to leave, to return to the apartment they've built together, his eyes show the quiet courage it takes to love someone through depression—the unseen acts of devotion that happen behind closed doors, day after day.