For the longest time, I thought I was just a sensitive, moody girl who had been battered by bad luck. I didn’t think I was depressed because reasons to be sad were always around. Throughout my 20s, I experienced a handful of family tragedies, lots of death, and my fair share of broken relationships. When a psychiatrist said that I had depression and anxiety, I felt I had earned my Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) diagnosis the way one earns a graduate degree. I had a masters in sadness. I figured I would always listen to Elliott Smith and read Virginia Woolf’s novels. Depression was in my bones. Instead, not long after I began treatment for depression, I discovered that my feelings were symptoms of an illness, not personality traits. Happiness had been inside of me all along.