My eldest son, Ethan, is now 9 years old. He’s becoming more complex with each passing day, and I find myself observing him closely. The challenge is that he doesn’t often share what he’s feeling. Occasionally, I’ll find him in his room, staring at a book with a distant look in his eyes, and I can’t help but wonder what thoughts are swirling in his mind. I worry that he might be starting to grapple with depression—something I began to experience around his age.
Ethan comes from a family with a history of mental health struggles—especially on my side. My mother has faced her own battles, and my father coped with his depression through alcohol and painkillers, passing away at the young age of 49. His mother took medication for anxiety, while my maternal grandmother often isolated herself in her room.
The thought of my three children inheriting my mental health issues weighs heavily on me. It feels as though I’m passing down a terrible illness, and I often find myself at a loss about how to prevent it. But children are unpredictable; they are not simply reflections of their parents.
People frequently comment on how much Ethan and I resemble each other, from our slender hands to our blue eyes. Yet, despite our similarities, we are fundamentally different. He possesses a patience that I lacked at his age and enjoys activities like reading and origami—skills that require a level of concentration I’ve never fully achieved. Unlike me, he’s more reserved, taking after his mother.
Speaking of my wife, she appears to be devoid of any mental health challenges, at least from my perspective. We have three children—two daughters and Ethan—and I’m hopeful that her genetic contributions will help temper any tendencies toward depression in our kids. I often wonder if her happiness can overshadow my struggles, leading our children toward a more “normal” path. But what does “normal” truly mean? I’ve never felt I fit into that mold.
I often feel like an actor playing a cheerful version of myself, and if I had to define my wish for my children as they grow, it would be this: I want them to default to happiness rather than fear. That’s my greatest struggle—feeling as if happiness is an icy peak, and one misstep could send me sliding back down.
Despite our differences, I sometimes project my past onto Ethan, expecting him to act in ways that align with my experiences. When he does a half-hearted job sweeping the kitchen or cleaning his room, I jump to conclusions, assuming he’s motivated by the same reasons I was at his age, when in reality, he often has entirely different motivations.
Seeing him resemble me during moments of sadness sends a wave of anxiety through me. I feel a weight of responsibility, and I know many parents who battle depression share similar sentiments. I want the best for my son and hope he can grow up free from the pain I endured. I have similar hopes for our daughters, though they’re only 6 and 2, so those concerns are still ahead of us.
Just the other day, I found Ethan lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling fan with watery eyes. He reminded me of my own moments of despair and frustration. I asked, “How are things going, buddy?” He looked up, beamed, and excitedly told me about a friend who can do two cartwheels in a row, laughing about how dizzy it makes him.
In that moment, I found myself questioning whether he truly understands what deep sadness feels like. He’s experienced disappointment and frustration, but I doubt he’s faced the prolonged despair that can grip someone like me.
Perhaps I’m worrying too much. Maybe he’s still too young to experience those depths. Maybe my own depression stemmed from an absent father and the stresses it placed on my mother. If that’s the case, perhaps Ethan will be alright.
Some of my happiest moments have been with my children, who often lift me out of slumps with their simple joys. My wife and I have a strong relationship, and my father’s early death has kept me away from drugs and alcohol. I don’t engage in either. Maybe just being present for Ethan and understanding what I know about depression will be enough to support him.
If I provide him with a joyful life, will he be spared from the struggles I’ve faced? I’m unsure.
Moments like the one Ethan and I shared on the couch make me question whether my concerns are unfounded. Living with anxiety often leads me to overanalyze and blow things out of proportion. I laughed with him and said, “That’s awesome! I thought you might be feeling sad.” He paused, sat up, and replied, “Nope.” “Good,” I said, “That makes me happy.”
In summary, I grapple with the fear of passing on my depression to my children, particularly my son, Ethan. While I recognize our similarities, I also see our differences, which give me hope. I wish for my children to lead happy lives, free from the burdens I’ve faced. Maybe just being there for them and fostering joy will be enough to shield them from my struggles.
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