From Depression to Debut: How I Wrote My First Novel (A Creative Writing Mental Health Story)

It is funny how life works, isn’t it?

Sometimes, the most significant shifts in life do not come from moments of triumph, but from crisis. We often chase dreams with clear paths, only to find our purpose shines from adversity. 

For me, that life-altering wake-up call I will never forget did not arrive wrapped in a red bow. Nooo… it did not. It emerged from the heart of the terrifying Ebola outbreak in 2016. 

However, before we dive into the extraordinary, almost unbelievable, journey of how Thou Shalt Love, my debut novel, came into existence, allow me to rewind a bit. 

This is not only a story about writing a romance novel inspired by my Liberian roots, it is a deeply personal narrative of battling depression, discovering the unexpected solace of creative writing, and proving that even when the world feels like it is collapsing, a new purpose can rise from the ashes. 

All things work together for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose.~ Romans 8:28

This is not a conventional tale of literary ambition, or a story where I tell like every other with wit and charm. For some reason, writing this has rubbed me of my wit so, bare with me as I write this with all seriousness and somewhat professionalism. 

We will talk about ambition later. Instead, it is a raw, honest look at how I navigated the unimaginable task of writing a novel through depression. 

Imagine facing that blank page, the confusion of what to write, how to write, when you can feel every fiber of your being weighed down by a murky cloud, a silent, cunning force called depression. 

Yet, amidst that struggle, an undeniable truth arises: God has not forgotten me. He was working behind the scenes, bringing me to a place of true purpose and legacy; that my voice, the stories he placed inside of me, needed to be told. 

This post will peel back the layers of that experience, sharing the specific struggles I faced, the unexpected strategies I stumbled upon, and the profound, transformative power of channeling pain into prose and prose into purpose. 

It is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit that would not have it any other way but to find the unexpected healing power within the pages of a developing manuscript, offering hope and understanding to anyone navigating the complex intersection of mental health and creativity. 

My journey to becoming a first-time author while navigating such a challenging period underscores a powerful message: your darkest moments can, surprisingly, ignite your greatest creations. 

This is my author’s journey, one fueled by adversity and the unyielding desire to create something bigger than myself.

My Cyprus life had been an absolute dream. I had a vibrant life woven within the threads of academic success, exhilarating travels across Europe and the U.S. Laughter-filled beach camping trips and endless sleepovers with friends were also experiences I would never forget or downplay in shaping the woman I am today. 

I was truly living what felt like a movie, unburdened and thriving. I graduated in 2016 with my head full of dreams of returning to Liberia, to a promising job (I was sure of it), and the life I had so carefully built there. But like a terrifying plot twist I did not see coming, Ebola became worse, and Liberia was not a place anyone would voluntarily travel to.

Yes, Ebola was in Liberia when I left for Cyprus. It was the reason the University of East Anglia swallowed up my one thousand plus pounds, because the U.K. had banned Liberians. However, it wasn’t too bad, at least that’s what I thought.

I did not want to wait for the following semester, so Cyprus happened. Talk about all things working for my good!

The eighteen months I spent getting my master’s degree shielded me from the grim reality of seeing firsthand people losing their lives daily. My mom, understandably, was frantic. Her motherly instinct meant she simply could not bear the thought of me returning to a country that she did not feel safe in. 

“Don’t come back,” she begged, her voice crooked. “Things are worse than when you left them. This person died two days ago, and yesterday three deaths came,” she began to list the people whom she knew who had died. 

“Don’t be stubborn and come here. You will regret it. Stay until things are better and then come.” For once, I listened. It was a miracle that I listened to my mother. Instead of flying back into the heart of the crisis, I rerouted straight to the U.S., my multiple-entry visa was my only ticket to what I hoped would be safety. But let me tell you, arriving in America, the “land of opportunity,” was the last place I wanted to stay long-term. Vacationing twice a year to meet friends and family, like I had been doing, was cool, but that was where my love ended. 

The stark reality of my situation hit me hard. I did not have permanent resident status; I could not work. I was a glorified tourist without a home or job. This was not the vibrant life I had in Liberia, this was bad for me.

And that was when the creeping spirit of depression visited. I say spirit because no one can convince me that an ordinary thing can take away God’s joy, stick so close to your head that you feel empty, lost, so pained that your chest would occasionally want to burst out of your chest. It plays with my health so badly that my monthly flow disappears for six months without any fear of pregnancy, except through an immaculate conception.  

Growing up in Liberia, there is this unspoken cultural narrative: “Africans don’t get depressed”. People say this to defend our difficult experiences in life, hardening us to the point where we can easily adapt to harsher conditions. 

Our society taught us to be tough, to survive, to overcome without complaint. But what I did not realize was that the sheer magnitude of this unexpected struggle was quietly, relentlessly breaking me down even when I did not know I was depressed. 

Everything about how I lived during depression went against everything I had previously judged. I had a roof over my head.  I lived with my cousin, Nathaniel, God bless Nath for me, and he took great care of me. I had food, clothes, shelter, etc. Nath made sure to give me pocket money to buy my toiletries or whatever I needed. He never once made me feel uncomfortable or like a burden to him; instead, he made me feel like I was the best thing that happened to North Dakota. Depression did not make sense at that time. Truthfully, it still does not.

There I was in Nath’s guest room, depending on him to provide for my needs. The stark contrast between my independent life in Liberia, where I had my house built by age twenty, and a coveted NGO job, and my current existence, living off someone else’s kindness, was a constant, painful reminder of everything I had lost.

This was not just a fleeting sadness; it was a deep sense of loss and disorientation from everything I had gotten used to. I felt hopeless and lost. Then one day, I finally understood why people commit suicide. I did not think about doing it, though. I knew I could never do that. My life was too precious, and my grandmother would never have recovered from that. That would have been her end. 

I thought about all the people I loved, and all those who loved me. I could never bring such sadness into the world. It was not in me to do that. My grandmother had so much hope and certainty in my future. There was no way I would allow the devil to rob us of the experience of that future.

And then one beautiful day that seemed ordinary, I lay there alone on the couch watching Netflix and heard a voice clearer than the TV show.  “Get up, and write.” God had finally had enough of seeing his favorite child sulking in self-pity. 

It was like a switch flipped. A sudden, sharp clarity amidst an overwhelming haze. I paused the television, instantly walked inside my room, sat at my laptop, took a deep breath, and, almost on instinct, started typing my name.