The Prowler in My Mind: Learning to Live with Depression

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“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” ~Leonard Cohen

When depression comes, I feel it like a prowler gliding through my body. My chest tightens, my head fills with dark whispers, and even the day feels like night. The prowler has no face, no clear shape, but its presence is heavy. Sometimes it circles in silence within me. Other times it presses in until I don’t know how to respond.

In those moments, I feel caught between two choices: do I lie still, hoping it passes by, or do I rise and face it? Often, …

(image)

“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” ~Leonard Cohen

When depression comes, I feel it like a prowler gliding through my body. My chest tightens, my head fills with dark whispers, and even the day feels like night. The prowler has no face, no clear shape, but its presence is heavy. Sometimes it circles in silence within me. Other times it presses in until I don’t know how to respond.

In those moments, I feel caught between two choices: do I lie still, hoping it passes by, or do I rise and face it? Often, I choose lying down—not out of paralysis but patience. Sometimes the only way to coexist with the shadow is to rest, to surrender for a while, to let sleep take me. And sometimes, when I wake, I feel a little lighter. Not free of the prowler but reminded that it is possible to live alongside it.

Carl Jung once wrote, “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in our conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” I know this to be true. The more I try to push my depression away, the heavier it becomes. But when I bring awareness—even reluctant awareness—its power weakens.

The Shadow as Teacher

The shadow is not only my enemy. It also serves as a teacher. Depression forces me to face the parts of myself I would rather outrun: shame, grief, fear, anger, discontent. But it also carries hidden truths. Jung suggested that the shadow holds not just what we reject but also forgotten strengths and possibilities.

For me, the shadow’s message is humility. It reminds me I am not in control, that I can’t polish myself into perfection. It pushes me to listen more deeply—to the pain I carry and the struggles I see in others. It insists that healing doesn’t come from pretending the darkness isn’t there. It comes from being willing to see it.

Buddhism and the Prowler

Buddhism gives me another way to see this. The Buddha taught that suffering doesn’t just come from clinging to what we crave; it also comes from turning away from what we don’t want to face. That turning away is called aversion.

When the prowler moves through me, my instinct is always to turn away. I want to push it out, distract myself, pretend it isn’t there. But each time I run from it, the shadow grows stronger.

In meditation, I practice staying. I sit and breathe, whispering silently, “May I be free from fear. May I be at peace.” I’ll be honest, sometimes these words feel empty or even silly. They don’t always lift me. But saying them creates a pause—a moment of willingness to stay instead of running. The prowler doesn’t vanish, but it softens a little under the light of compassion.

Creativity and the Shadow

I’ve also discovered that my documentary work—filmmaking, writing, teaching—is only authentic when I acknowledge the shadow. My camera becomes a mirror. When I pretend everything is light, the images feel flat. But when I allow the complexity of shadow into my seeing, the work has depth.

When I sit with people to listen to their stories, I often sense their shadows too—grief unspoken, fear beneath the surface, contradictions in how they see themselves. I can recognize those shadows because I have lived with mine. Facing my own shadow allow