What would you do if I told you that brushing my hair has lead into living my life to the fullest?

You don't have to answer this aloud--mainly because if I would've been asked this a few months ago, I would've just assumed whoever wrote this inquiry was slightly off in the head. And you probably think I'm not "all there" too, and you're probably right.

I'm rambling again; so hair, right? Yeah, most of us have that or had that at some point. Long hair, short hair, straight hair, curly hair, I'm certain you get the idea. For whatever reason, the combination and styling of this cluster of keratin and dead skin cells has fascinated our society for what feels like forever. I'm not excluding myself from this stereotype by any means, as I do love my own hair--at least I can say, I love it now.

For those who may not know me personally, my hair nearly touches my waist in length, transitions seamlessly from my natural ashy blonde to a stunning platinum, has natural waves akin to that only achieved by a curling iron, and has been called "beautiful" by hordes of of my parent's friends and sweet dental hygienist.

But, these comments come when I let my hair down. When confined in my buns and under my hats, I get no more than a passing glance.

But why, if I was fully aware of my hair's enchanting features, would I hide it from the world?

One word: tangles.

These aren't normal tangles. These are actual knots clinging onto dirt and residual shampoo that I didn't have the energy to wash out. These are bird nest that I corral into my up-dos in hopes no one will look too closely. These are my Achilles' heels. These are my Kryptonite.

Now here, I know you're asking why I didn't just brush this mess out. And I would do that if I was able to.

If only it were that simple. If only I could leave the bed. If only I had the energy to ask for help. If only depression didn't engulf any and all energy you emit.

At the peak of my depressive state, this was my life--and you can't even really call it a "life", because this isn't how we are meant to live. Existence fits better, because I was existing. Nothing more. Nothing less.

But, enough dwelling on the past, it's only their for us to reflect upon and grow from.

As I opened up about my numbness to both the world and myself, I noticed subtle differences. I stopped dreading the upcoming day. I stopped longing to dissociate myself from reality.

I stopped finding the monstrous tangles.

These tumbleweeds in my follicles began to dwindle in number, and I was amazed at how something so simple gave me such a better outlook. And their reason for disappearance?

I started brushing my hair. Once a day. Every day.

Of course, to anyone that has never experienced any sort of depression or mania, this conclusion feels anticlimactic. But, to anyone that has suffered from this, you feel this in your soul.

You know all too well that everyday activities become monumental task. You know that any days you even leave your house can be categorized as a success. You know that every single moment is an uphill battles during a monsoon. You know. And I wish you didn't, but you do.

So with this, I offer a suggestion: Brush your hair. Make your bed. Fold the laundry. It's the little things that can make a the biggest difference. It isn't an easy task, but you have my unwavering support in facing these demons. Every day is a new one. It'll get better. I promise you that.