“Karen, you’ve had depression for your entire life,” my therapist recently said. “It’s not going anywhere.”

I know this is true. Still, I looked at my shoes. Taking a deep breath, I replied, “People say that I’ve given up hope when I say I know my depression isn’t going to magically disappear. I’ve had suicidal thoughts my entire life. I’ve given up the idea of not thinking that way.”

Logically, I have given that up. I know that when life is hard or my emotions are uncomfortable, my mind reminds me that I don’t have to do this anymore. It’s my first thought.

But the name of my blog is Invincible Hope – and where’s the hope in a lifetime of suicidal ideation?

I have hope because in spite of the way my head works, I’m still here. I have chosen life. I know that the voices inside of me that beg me to kill myself are hurting, and I choose a life of healing rather than giving up.

In spite of my rational acceptance, my emotional self desperately wants these thoughts to go away. That’s normal. No one would choose to suffer with a brain that wants them dead.

Sometimes I feel incredible shame about how my brain works, but the best way to alleviate shame is to talk about it – or for me, to share publicly about my inner life. Invariably, when I share this stuff, someone says, “Me too,” or, “I lost my father to suicide,” or, “My sister has mental illness.”

I know my experience isn’t universal – not all of us struggle with persistent suicidal thoughts – but it is also not unique. When I realize that others struggle too – people who I respect – and feel the love I have for them, I’m able to feel a little bit of love for myself too. That inner compassion and self-love has to be nurtured and grown.

Sure, there are skills and tools – I take my medications, participate in therapy, meditate and pray, and work on radical acceptance. I walk the healing path.

Three years ago this month I chose to start Invincible Hope in order to share my story, perhaps inspiring hope in others. I didn’t do this because I had all the answers, but because I find inspiration in others who have similar journeys.

As a teenager I was miserable. I felt the barriers to happiness in my life were insurmountable, and that no one could possibly understand. I thought my therapist – who seemed pretty happy and was hopeful I could be happy too – was an idealist do-gooder who had no idea the damage trauma could do. She finally broke the therapeutic “rules” and told me her story. I won’t repeat it here, but suffice it to say she’d had her own dramatic story, and that day a little bit of hope was born in me.

Hope is not born of lack of suffering, but in the healing from that suffering. Healing does not necessarily mean there is an absence of pain. For example, I had a head-on collision in 1999 and the surgeons didn’t know if they could save my leg, or if it would even be usable if they did. Many surgeries later that limb is functional, and I like having two legs that both work. I still struggle with pain, however. It is much better than it used to be, but that leg hurts, and it doesn’t work as well as most people’s.

It is the same with my brain. I am grateful for the fact that I have one, and that it functions – but just as my leg bears scars from the damage of the accident, my brain bears the scars from years of trauma and my persistent mental illness.

So I heal. As my very first blog post stated, hope is real and it lives here.