It's been a rough year around ZRecs HQ. If you follow me on Twitter or have "liked" us on Facebook you already know the whys, but I'm finally ready to go into a little more detail here on our blog.

One year ago today, I lost one of my best friends to postpartum depression. A sweet baby girl lost her mama, a husband lost his wife, parents lost their daughter, and the world lost a compassionate, generous activist.

I met Kristi Marie Couvillon Wise during college sometime in the mid-nineties. I don't remember where or the exact date, and when I look back on it, it seems like I'd just known her forever. There are few people with whom I've had that instant connection -- that moment that changes so quickly and seamlessly from the just-getting-to-know-you phase to knowing that you will grow old and still be laughing and sharing with this person.

The thing I hadn't yet put my finger on in those early days - I suspect that I recognized it but couldn't name it -- was that beyond all of the music and philosophies and books and other random interests that we shared, we also shared a struggle with chronic depression.

I don't remember how or why we first spoke of it. Did she mention it or did I bring it up? Was it in the context of a current episode, or were we sharing our pasts? But I saw that for the first time, there was a person who didn't judge, didn't scorn, wasn't shocked when I described what it felt like to be sinking into that black abyss of depression. She didn't tell me to keep a stiff upper lip or to think of other things; she acknowledged and she shared her own struggles and experiences with me. Our battle with depression was only part of our relationship, although it was an important part. But I also loved Kristi for her boundless spontaneity, her free spirit, her compassion, sincerity, and intelligence. Kristi was one of the most giving people that I've ever met.

As we grew to adulthood, we continued to share our struggles. She helped me through a battle against PTSD and postpartum depression after the birth of my daughter Z. I consoled her when she had a miscarriage and through years of infertility. We celebrated together at weddings, she came to my daughter's birthday parties, we each moved across the country and back at different times, we started and sometimes changed careers. There were times, of course, when our contact would slow (can you remember a time when texting didn't exist and when internet access was not available everywhere you went?) but for the big things -- the sorrows, the losses, the wins -- we made sure to talk or visit.

Kristi blossomed in her adulthood, first as a social worker, then as a defense attorney, and then as a working mother. The passion and love she shared with her friends and family came through in her law career and work with the Texas Civil Rights Project, where she labored tirelessly for inmates on Texas' death row.

A year ago today, Kristi died after nearly five months of torturous depression. She was seeking treatment and had a strong support system, but depression is not always cured by popping a Prozac. It's often a long experiment to see which drugs have an effect on your body while trying to be convinced that the thoughts coming from your mind are not your own. She left a six-month-old daughter, a loving husband, and countless others to mourn her.

I cannot imagine the rest of my life without Kristi. My heart breaks for her daughter who will never know the light that shone so bright from her mother, but also to think of the sadness and pain from which she so desperately needed relief. I still mourn her every day. I wonder what I could have done, what any of us could have done to help her. I think about all of the other people in the world who have lost loved ones to suicide -- all of the other children who must grow up without a mother or a father, all of the parents who lost their children too early.

I think of my own struggles with depression, my own spirals into the abyss. I think of how we toss around the words "depression" or "depressed" like a baseball. "I'm so depressed that it's raining today" or "That movie was really depressing." Do we cheapen the meaning of the word and lighten our impressions of true depression? Does using the word depression in those ways make us underestimate its deadly power? Certainly it makes it easier to brush off when someone says tells you they are depressed -- do you have to take it seriously like when someone says they have cancer? Or have we so watered down the word that it's more like telling someone you stubbed your toe? ("Oh, I'm sorry, that must hurt. Just keep on truckin' and you'll feel better in no time.")

A year has passed. In some ways, it feels like Kristi died only yesterday, but in others, I have moved forward. And so I find myself beginning to do again what we at ZRecs have prided ourselves on doing for years: advocating, raising awareness, and contributing my voice to the many that are trying to make things different somehow. I can't change what happened to Kristi (oh how I desperately wish I could) but maybe if we all work together we can change the next person. Maybe we can make postpartum depression be treated as a serious issue by our society and our media. Maybe we can help support new moms better and make sure that they are getting the help and the relief that they need while they are adjusting to becoming mothers. Maybe together we can ask all of our new mom friends, not just "How is the baby?but "How are you?" "Are you feeling sad?" "Do you know the signs of postpartum depression?" "What can I do to help you?"

When we see a loved one who seems to be struggling, we can reach out to them -- offer help, help them find help, tell them that depression is not a way of life -- is not something to brush off. We can make our children aware of the signs of depression and suicide -- help them become fluent in identifying those signs -- maybe help them save a friend. We can work together to stop the damned bullying already.

I've found somewhere to start that works for me: Raising money for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. I'm going to walk one of their Out of the Darkness walks, because I'm committed to making suicide an acceptable topic of conversation. I'm going to help them raise money for education and awareness. And slowly, as I put the pieces back together, I'll see what I can do to raise awareness for postpartum depression. Because no one should feel that desperate. No one should see suicide as their only way out. And because babies deserve mothers and mothers deserve help.

The Reverend David Hoster wrote a beautiful eulogy for Kristi's service and I'll leave you with his last words:

"Then our new responsibility will begin. The Kristi that we cherish is all about life, and it is the responsibility of those who know and cherish her to meet her death with life. Whatever she brought to life in each of us must be the living, triumphant answer to the question that is no longer a question, but a straightforward declaration of fact: how could she not be among us!"

If you'd like to donate to my Out of the Darkness walking team (all funds are donated to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention), you can do so on my participant page. I'd be so thankful if you did.

If you or someone you know is in emotional crisis or is showing the warning signs for suicide, please seek help immediately or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).