i'm back from a year of rest and relaxation

on depression, lessons learned, and the desire to sleep through it all. plus, welcome to "in due time."

TW: Mentions of suicidal ideation, binge disorder, abuse, and depression

I spent 2024 in the comfort of my bed. Okay, I technically did that in 2023, too. But this time, it was intentional.

Over the past two years, I’ve been plagued with an intoxicating cocktail of fatigue, burnout, and the all-consuming desire to scream into the void. Instead of spending yet another year drowning out these symptoms with unfinished to-do lists and miscellaneous distractions (situationships, doom-scrolling, et cetera), I did the unthinkable for the first time ever: nothing.

This might not sound like much of an accomplishment or something to boast about. “Nothing” is shushed upon mention in our hustle-fueled social circles. It’s practically a cardinal sin expelled from the museum of #2024wrapped and #yearinreview posts rampant on my feed. But for me, “nothing” was very much needed. Walk with me, hand in hand, as I trauma dump.

Since fleeing to New York City from Memphis on a Greyhound bus exactly six years ago today, I’ve only known that a life well lived—or at least, a life that checks off the bare minimum—comes not without playing a dangerous game of risk and sacrifice. Despite the cards I was dealt in my adolescence (poverty, the occasional homelessness, abuse, ya know, trauma), I somehow planted roots in Brooklyn at 18 with only two suitcases, $140 cash in my pocket, and a dream (more on this, eventually). I juggled multiple gigs and a full-time college schedule with barely a full meal in my belly to fuel my 12+ hour days, every day. Yes, it came with a few breakdowns on the sidewalk. Oddly enough, it invigorated me, stress and all. Someone like me can’t afford to rest, I reminded myself.

Even with death surrounding me during the pandemic, I scraped together the little energy I had left to escape reality by working retail jobs and taking on unpaid internships. My determination to hold onto something—anything—eventually paid off in the form of everything I had worked so hard for. Not long after graduating (on Zoom) in May 2021, I secured my dream job as a writer by August. To say I was ecstatic, eager, and hungry to step into adulthood would be an understatement. However, in a turn of events I can only describe as a near-fatal mix of the highest highs and extremely low lows, the enthusiasm that had once fueled me through a 30-something-hour bus ride to the city, the pandemic, and the excitement of press trips and glamorous work events as a fashion writer quickly faded. Before I knew it, I found myself spiraling.

Depression is a constant invasion of the stability I yearn for. It doesn’t knock, or peak through the cracks of the blinds to see if I’m home, and it sure as hell doesn’t tuck me in at night. Rather, it’s always uninvited, forcibly breaking down the hinges of the safe sanctuary I worked so hard to craft in my mind. It unsolicitedly pecks, chips, chews, and chomps away at my consciousness every chance it gets. Every single encounter with failure, disappointment, and guilt zip-ties my limbs until they turn blue and numb, and blur my vision ahead until the ground beneath my feet fades to black. Depression is the biggest thief of joy—and life’s most recurring form of displacement from my own body—I’ve ever experienced. Debilitating, really.

I should be happy, grateful even, that I’m here, in this space, with these people, at this moment in time. How blessed am I? How hard I’ve worked. I was at war with myself, and in turn, became unrecognizable. Any sliver of identity was confiscated in depression’s heist. And this feeling of without—of my knowing and being—was exacerbated even more by my new-found state of unemployment in 2023. I lost the reins on the little control I thought I had. (In a now-private TikTok I posted that July, I said, “I am [now] a shell of myself.”)

i think about this scene often. (Insecure Season 5, Episode 10)

To cope with an ongoing case of unworthiness in my early twenties, I self-medicated on UberEats every day, sometimes two, or three times a day. I ravenously dipped my fries in ketchup, adding a tinge of spite and self-hatred with every bite, and washed out the fatty residues of my orders with carbonated, sugar-free conviction until I could feel my indulgence expand every crevice of my guts (and at times, forcing it all back up). Every delivery, every pound gained, and every impulse purchase were simply physical manifestations of the punishment I thought I deserved. It drained the life from the little soul I had left as fast as the funds from my bank account.

On the other hand, I was forcibly shoved into the daunting abyss of full-time freelancing. My new professional path pumped bits of dopamine, serotonin, and validation I needed to distract myself, even just for a second, from the fact that I wanted to seriously gouge my eyes out. When I wasn’t frantically typing away on my laptop to meet deadlines, I spent the majority of 2023 sprawled at home bed rotting, brain rotting, and all the rottings as a recluse—when I should’ve been at the club. But none of the brain-fry articles produced and scrambling about could metabolize my inner rage. I hated that I found comfort in my woes. I salivated at the sight of pessimism, envy, and pure anger. It’ll get better’s people told me were the protein shakes I left to spoil in the back of my fridge. I cried just about every day.

“It was lunacy, this idea, that I could sleep myself into a new life. Preposterous. But there I was, approaching the depths of my journey” 

― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

I contemplated waving the white flag, moving back home, or both. But by the start of 2024, high on edibles and reruns of Insecure, I grudgingly accepted the invitation to give life one more chance, the same thing I tell myself every time depression comes wreaking its havoc. I hated myself. I was also desperate to save myself. And so, I decided to embark on a year of rest and relaxation. I read Ottessa Moshfegh’s book of the same title (twice) around the same time, and while I have many thoughts on the plot itself, the idea of voluntarily sleeping my way through it all, and in isolation, intrigued me. Just one year was all I wanted. (After all, I’m an advocate for disappearing without a trace, a seasoned veteran at “going off the grid” as I’d done in my teens.) But the stakes for my absence carried much more weight this go round (unfortunately, I still needed to work and pay bills), so I set basic, but firm, ground rules to follow:

my 10 commandments of r&r:

1. Say no, and say it often. 

2. Boundaries.

3. Log off of social media. 

4. Cannabis. Lots of it.

5. Free yourself from the shackles of any situations with -ships in them. I beg.

6. Silence. 

7. Sleep.

8. Move with intention.

9. Go with the flow. 

10. If all else fails, leave.

I wanted to reenact the anonymous protagonist’s prescription-induced coma (trust me, I really did, but with what insurance…ha…) Instead, and thankfully so, my year of “nothing” was swapped with the “bare minimum” as a proactive attempt to stay alive. I tried to quiet the chaos of my mind by Marie Kondo-ing every life decision. I led my day-by-day with one simple question: Does this spark joy?

Now, I wasn’t perfect in abiding by my own rules. What “sparked joy” most days were admittedly sulking in the depression, fatigue, and burnout I desperately wanted to overcome. At times, I left my monotonous routine of self-pity for gatherings with friends as a way to slowly integrate my way back into society. I opted out of overwhelming myself with silly fluff pieces to write for the sake of writing to stay relevant and replaced it with hours spent in a cannabis-fueled slumber and caffeinated walks around the park. I had nothing to say, no idea what to do, where I wanted to go (literally and metaphorically), or who I wanted to be. I was bored out of my mind (good) and bored of my misery (really good). For an entire year, I sat in discomfort in the presence of my sadness. I hated it. I’m also very glad I did it.

I’m embarrassed and ashamed that I allowed this depressive episode to fester as long as it did. In simple words, your girl was going through it. I’m not completely free from depression’s grip—I still have my sense of self to recover, and evidently a police report to file because clearly, this bitch got hands. But at least, I come into 2025 feeling anew and forgiving of what once was. Well rested, I am indeed.

“This was how I knew the sleep was having an effect: I was growing less and less attached to life. If I kept going, I thought, I'd disappear completely, then reappear in some new form. This was my hope. This was the dream.” 

― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

things i did in 2024, in no particular order:

1. My year of rest and relaxation, of course.

2. I regularly contributed to Marie Claire as a freelance fashion news writer and then, as a freelance news contributor for Architectural Digest. I joined Byrdie and InStyle as an Updates Editor. I wrote about why everyone loves Lewis Hamilton, Korean minimalism in interiors, and even interviewed Danielle of NewJeans’ older sister, Olivia Marsh. I helped my friend Cortne Bonilla as a styling assistant for shoots. I also had the pleasure of working with brands like Sonos and Pandora for freelance copywriting projects. I’m forever grateful for the editors who gave me a chance and helped me survive another year, even at my worst.

3. I went on a few incredible trips—Berlin Fashion Week, F1 Austin Grand Prix with Mercedes and Marriott, 48 hours in Boston with T.J.Maxx and Marshalls, Dallas with Samsung, and Upstate New York with The Travel Agency—all of which feel like lifetimes ago in their own rights. Thank you. I needed it.

4. Speaking of travel, I went to Korea again. I opened another credit card to go but fuck it, we ball (apparently).

5. I celebrated my 24th birthday at the recording studio . I’m coming for your crown, pink wig lady.

6. I had a crush and yapped about them to anyone who would listen. I’ve since stood up and moved on. Kind of.

7. I spent roughly a year and a half taking 1:1 Korean lessons every week consistently. My comprehension has drastically improved, though my speaking can always use some work. If you need a referral link, I gotchu. Ditch that big green bird once and for all.

8. I went to a psychic, as suggested by my good friend Gabriella. The insights were life-changing.

9. I made out with a stranger in my Uber Share one night. I still think about that kiss.

10. I finally got the surgery I’ve always wanted. A weight has been lifted off of my chest, literally.

what is in due time?

I often encourage others to be disgustingly vulnerable but have trouble practicing that for myself (I like to preserve my crashing out for a select few people to see, thank you very much). I’ve always had this platform in the back of my mind since this homework assignment in 2019. Shoutout to Blake Eskin, my lovely NND1 professor at The New School, who was well ahead of the Substack curve. 

in due time is a mantra that I feel accurately depicts my experience as a 20-something trying to lead my life with the same energy this phrase exudes. I’m just a girl with lots on my mind but not a clue where to start. For now, you can expect fashion + beauty trend analyses, personal essays, and culture deep dives through my lens. 

Above all, this newsletter is my personal project for 2025, with hopes to fall back in love with writing and rebuild my confidence after loathing it for a minute. While I find my footing, I’d be eternally grateful if you could join me along the ride as I discover who I am as a person in this moment in time and find the words to articulate it all. Expect to find in due time in your inbox whenever I have something to say. Hopefully, it’ll be often.

With that said, in due time is free for now. If you feel generous, you can share this post and/or buy me a coffee.

who am i?

I’m India Roby, a Memphis-born, NYC-based freelance writer and editor. My words have been featured in NYLON, Teen Vogue, Architectural Digest, Marie Claire, Byrdie, and more.

where to find me:

Instagram: @indiajde 

Twitter (I will never call it X, disrespectfully): @india_roby

TikTok: @notindiajde

Bluesky: @indiajde.bsky.social

Website: indiaroby.carrd.co 

Email: indiaroby44@gmail.com