Content Note: This post discusses depression and emotional exhaustion. Please read with care.

That was the old Royal Family rule—stoic, impenetrable, forever above it all.

I, alas, am not royalty. I’m an overthinker with a camera and a blog, and I owe you nothing… but I’d like to offer a little explanation anyway. Call it common courtesy. Or perhaps just the need to name what’s been happening.

So here’s the situation report from IJM Photography.

I haven’t written in a month for two reasons.
First: the season. If you’ve followed this space for a while, you know I’ve long wrestled with melancholy—especially as the days shorten. This year, it hit harder than usual. I made it through November, but only just. By December, I was physically and mentally exhausted.

Second: my health. After a conversation with my manager and HR, I was referred to the médecin du travail. She diagnosed me with dépression aiguë—acute depression (not the cute, Hello Kitty kind)—and noted a heart murmur. Frankly, I was relieved to have a name for what I’d been carrying.

She ordered me to go straight home—not back to work—and to see my GP the next day. She mentioned my brain chemistry was “in a bit of a mess.” Which, in its odd way, reminded me of three things:

• — I have a brain
• — I have a heart
• — and I am profoundly tired

Not broken. Just worn thin.

I was referred to the local Centre Médico-Psychologique. There, I broke another unspoken rule: when the nurse asked how I was, I didn’t say, “Fine, thanks.” I told the truth—calmly, factually, without blame—about the weight I’d been under since returning to work after my accident, and how even the resilience I’d inherited from past generations suddenly felt out of reach.

To my surprise, a session with a psychiatrist opened up right away. He was kind, thoughtful. We talked about identity, belonging, and the quiet strain of straddling cultures. He said I carry “the mindset of an immigrant”—and that perhaps I’ve become more French than I realize. He suggested working on communication with my spouse, and that a trip back to the UK might help me reconnect with myself.

He might be right. If funds were no object, I’d book the ticket tomorrow.

For now, I’m taking things one day at a time. Resting. Recharging. And slowly returning—to my camera, to my words, to myself.

Thank you for waiting.

— IJM