Dating with Depression: How I Learned to Be Honest (And Found Love Anyway)

By Maya Thompson
Published: January 8, 2026 • 9 min read

The text came after our third date:

“Hey, I had a really great time, but I don’t think I can do this. My ex had depression and it was a lot. I hope you understand.”

I stared at my phone, sitting in my car outside the restaurant where we’d just had dinner. Where he’d laughed at my jokes. Where he’d held my hand across the table. Where he’d kissed me goodbye and said, “I can’t wait to see you again.”

That was before I mentioned I took antidepressants.

I’d been honest, and it cost me. Again.

The Dating-With-Depression Dilemma

Here’s the thing about dating with depression: you’re constantly running a mental calculation.

Do I tell them? When do I tell them? How much do I tell them?

Too early, and you scare them off before they even know you. Too late, and it feels like you’ve been hiding something. Either way, it feels like there’s a bomb strapped to your chest, and you’re just waiting to see if this particular person can handle the explosion.

I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder at 22. By the time I started dating again at 28 (after my last relationship ended partly because of my mental health), I had no idea how to navigate this.

The Rejected Pile

Over two years of dating, I was rejected because of my depression at least five times. Explicitly. These weren't ghosting situations—these were people telling me, directly, that my mental illness was a dealbreaker. One guy said he "didn't want to be someone's therapist." (Sir, I have an actual therapist.) Another said mental illness was "too much drama." (Depression is many things. Dramatic is not one of them.)

The Hiding Phase

After rejection number three, I decided to stop telling people.

For six months, I dated without disclosing my depression. I hid my medication in my nightstand. I made excuses when I had bad days. I pretended to be the breezy, carefree version of myself that existed only in my carefully curated dating profile.

And you know what? It worked, sort of. I got to fourth and fifth dates. I had a two-month relationship. People seemed to like me.

But I was exhausted.

Hiding a fundamental part of yourself is like holding your breath underwater. You might survive for a while, but eventually, you have to come up for air—or drown.

My breaking point came on a beach in Santa Monica.

I was with a guy I’d been seeing for three months. We were watching the sunset, and he turned to me with this soft look and said, “I feel like I know you so well.”

And all I could think was: You don’t know me at all.

He didn’t know that mornings were hard for me. He didn’t know that sometimes I spent entire weekends in bed, not because I was tired but because my brain had convinced me nothing was worth getting up for. He didn’t know that some nights I cried in the shower for no reason I could name.

I’d created a relationship built on a foundation of lies. And I couldn’t do it anymore.

Coming Clean (and Coming Apart)

I told him. All of it.

He listened quietly, and then he said, “I wish you had told me sooner. I don’t know if I can handle this.”

We broke up two weeks later.

The Spiral

I took a break from dating for almost a year. My depression got worse before it got better. I switched medications, started seeing a new therapist, and did a lot of work on myself. I also had to confront a painful truth: I'd been treating my depression like a shameful secret, and that shame was poisoning my relationships before they even started.

Rewriting the Narrative

My therapist asked me a question that changed everything:

“What if depression isn’t a dealbreaker? What if it’s a filter?”

I didn’t understand at first. She explained:

“Every time someone rejects you because of your depression, they’re telling you something important—they’re not equipped to be the partner you need. That’s not a failure; that’s information. The right person won’t see your depression as a burden. They’ll see it as part of who you are.”

It was a radical reframe. Instead of seeing my depression as something that disqualified me from love, I started seeing it as something that would help me find the right love.

The New Approach

When I started dating again, I did things differently:

1. Early, Casual Disclosure

Instead of hiding my depression or making a Big Dramatic Reveal, I started weaving it into normal conversation.

“I can’t do morning dates—I take medication that makes mornings rough for me.”

“I’m pretty introverted, partly because of my mental health. I need a lot of recharge time.”

“I go to therapy on Tuesdays, so that evening doesn’t work for me.”

This approach accomplished two things: it normalized my depression (it’s just a fact about me, like being left-handed or allergic to cats), and it gave the other person a chance to respond without pressure.

2. Paying Attention to Reactions

Someone’s reaction to casual disclosure tells you everything you need to know:

Green flags:

“Oh, I have a lot of friends who go to therapy. It’s so important.”
“My sister takes antidepressants. I get it.”
“Morning medication sounds rough. Want to do a late brunch instead?”

Red flags:

“You don’t seem depressed.”
“Have you tried just… being more positive?”
Awkward silence followed by a subject change

3. Not Apologizing

I stopped saying “I’m sorry” when I talked about my depression. I stopped calling it “baggage.” I stopped framing myself as damaged goods.

Depression is a medical condition. I don’t apologize for having brown eyes or being five-foot-four.

The Shift

Something amazing happened when I stopped treating my depression as a shameful secret: I started attracting different kinds of people. More emotionally intelligent people. People who had done their own therapy. People who understood that mental health isn't binary—we're all somewhere on the spectrum of struggling and thriving.

Meeting James

I met James on Hinge. His profile said he was a social worker, which felt promising. Our first date was at a taco truck—casual, low-pressure.

On our second date, I mentioned that I’d had a rough week because my antidepressants were being adjusted.

He nodded. “That transition period is brutal. Are you doing okay with sleep? That’s usually the first thing that gets thrown off.”

I stared at him. “You… know about this?”

He laughed. “I work in community mental health. I probably know more about SSRIs than I should. Also, I’ve been in therapy for years. Anxiety. It’s pretty well-managed now, but I know what it’s like to navigate that stuff.”

For the first time, I was on a date with someone who actually got it.

What a Supportive Partner Looks Like

We’ve been together for almost two years now. Here’s what I’ve learned about what genuine support looks like:

He doesn’t try to fix me.
When I have bad days, he doesn’t offer solutions or tell me to “think positive.” He asks what I need—space, company, help with something—and then he provides it.

He knows my patterns.
He’s learned to recognize when I’m starting to slide. He’ll gently ask if I’ve taken my medication. He’ll suggest I call my therapist. He doesn’t panic—he just pays attention.

He has his own mental health practice.
James still goes to therapy. He takes care of his own mental health. He doesn’t rely on me to be his emotional caretaker, and he doesn’t position himself as mine.

He loves all of me.
Including the parts that sometimes stay in bed all day. Including the parts that cry for no reason. Including the parts that get scared I’m “too much.” He loves me—the whole, complicated, medicated, sometimes-messy me.

What I'd Tell My Past Self

Stop hiding. Stop apologizing. Stop dating people who make you feel like you're too much. Your depression is part of your story, and the right person will read the whole book—not just the chapters that are easy. You deserve someone who sticks around for the bad days, not just the good ones.

Advice for Dating with Depression

If you’re navigating the dating world with a mental illness, here’s what I’ve learned:

Your mental health is not a flaw. It’s a health condition. Would you apologize for having diabetes?
Early, casual disclosure works better than dramatic reveals. Weave it into conversation naturally.
Pay attention to reactions. Someone’s response to mental health tells you about their emotional capacity.
Don’t settle for tolerance. You deserve someone who embraces all of you, not someone who merely puts up with your illness.
Take care of yourself first. Dating is easier when you’re stable. It’s okay to take breaks when you need them.
The right person is out there. I know it doesn’t feel like it after rejection number five. But they exist. I found mine.

Maya Thompson is a freelance writer and mental health advocate living in Los Angeles. She believes that vulnerability is a superpower and that the right person will never make you feel like you’re “too much.”