I didn’t wake up one day and decide to fake depression. I backed into it the way people back into lies—one “I’m not okay” at a time, until it started working better than the truth.
My name is Brianna “Bree” Collins, and I was the operations lead at a small logistics company outside Dallas. The job was chaos: late shipments, angry clients, and a new system rollout I’d promised I could manage. When the rollout started failing, it wasn’t because I didn’t know what I was doing—it was because I’d cut corners. I skipped testing. I brushed off warnings from IT. I told everyone, “We’ll fix it live.”
Then the biggest client threatened to leave.
My boss, Mark Henson, called an emergency meeting. The conference room smelled like burnt coffee and panic. Mark laid the numbers on the screen and said, “This is on us. Bree, I need answers.”
My chest tightened. I felt heat crawl up my neck. The words that wanted to come out were: I rushed it. I messed up. I’m sorry. But I pictured the consequences—discipline, maybe demotion, definitely shame. And then I remembered something I’d seen happen to someone else: when they broke down, people stopped demanding performance and started offering protection.
So I did it.
I stared at the table and whispered, “I… I haven’t been myself. I’m struggling. I think I’m depressed.”
The room changed instantly.
Mark’s voice softened. “Okay,” he said carefully. “We’ll take this step by step. Your health comes first.”
Coworkers who’d been furious suddenly looked guilty. Jenna from customer success reached for a tissue box and slid it toward me like she was saving my life. Nobody asked about the skipped testing. Nobody asked why I’d overridden the checklist.
That afternoon, HR offered short-term leave. Mark told me to go home. My team took over the rollout mess. The client stayed—for now—because everyone worked late to patch the damage I’d caused.
At home, I lay on my couch and stared at the ceiling, waiting to feel remorse.
What I felt was relief.
Over the next two weeks, I learned the rules. Speak softly. Say you’re “overwhelmed.” Mention “therapy.” Post one vague quote on Instagram about “fighting battles you can’t see.” People will fill in the blanks with their compassion.
My mom called daily. “Honey, don’t worry about anything,” she said. “Just get better.”
And I let them.
Then, on a Monday morning, Mark texted: “Hope you’re okay. Quick question—can you send me the rollout test logs you ran before launch? Legal is asking.”
My stomach dropped because there were no logs.
I typed back: I’m not in a place to dig through that right now.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then he wrote: “Understood. We’ll handle it.”
I exhaled like I’d escaped again.
But that night, I got an email from HR: Mandatory meeting Wednesday. Attendees: HR, Mark, and Compliance.
And the subject line made my blood run cold:
“Investigation: Process Compliance and Documentation.”
Part 2
By Wednesday, I’d rehearsed my lines the way an actor rehearses grief. I wore a plain sweater, no makeup, hair pulled back like I hadn’t tried. In the mirror I practiced a tired half-smile. Not too dramatic. Just fragile enough.
The meeting room was smaller than the conference room, almost intimate. Tanya from HR sat with a folder open. Mark looked older than he had two weeks earlier—jaw tight, eyes tired. A man from Compliance, Derrick, nodded at me like he’d already read the ending.
Tanya began gently. “Bree, first, we want to check in. How are you doing?”
I paused, lowered my eyes. “I’m… trying.”
Mark cleared his throat. “We’re not here to question your health,” he said carefully. “But we have to address the rollout.”
Derrick slid a printed timeline across the table. It listed dates, approvals, and missing documents. In bold: Testing Verification: Not Provided.
My heart hammered, but I kept my voice soft. “I don’t remember everything clearly,” I said. “I was in a really dark place.”
Derrick didn’t flinch. “We pulled system logs,” he replied. “The testing environment was never accessed under your credentials. And the checklist you signed was uploaded at 2:14 a.m. the day of launch—after the system was already live.”
Mark stared at the paper. “Bree… did you test it?”
I felt a flicker of anger—not at myself, but at them for forcing the truth into daylight. “I did what I could,” I said, voice shaking on purpose. “I was barely functioning.”
Tanya’s expression tightened. “I’m going to be direct,” she said. “Using a health situation to avoid accountability is serious. We’re also concerned about something else.”
She opened the folder and turned it toward me.
It was a screenshot—my Instagram story from the weekend. A bright rooftop bar, my drink in hand, captioned: “Finally feeling alive again.” Not illegal. Not proof of anything. But it was a crack in the image I’d built.
Mark exhaled slowly. “You told me you couldn’t open your laptop,” he said. “That you couldn’t look at the logs.”
My mouth went dry. “It was a good moment,” I said. “One good day doesn’t mean—”
“I agree,” Tanya interrupted, calm but firm. “One good day doesn’t erase depression. But it also doesn’t erase the missing documentation.”
Derrick leaned forward. “We’re not diagnosing you,” he said. “We’re investigating conduct. We need to know: did you knowingly certify testing that didn’t happen?”
The room felt too quiet. My rehearsed fragility suddenly looked thin, like tissue paper held up to light.
Mark’s voice dropped. “Bree, please. Don’t make me guess.”
I looked at him and realized he wasn’t angry in the way I expected.
He was disappointed—like I’d used something sacred as a shield.
My throat tightened for real this time. “I didn’t think it would blow up,” I whispered.
Tanya closed the folder. “That’s not an answer.”
I stared at the table. The easiest path was to keep performing. But Derrick’s evidence was already past the point of acting.
So I lifted my head and said the sentence that changed everything:
“Okay. I didn’t run the full tests.”
Mark’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Then why did you tell us—”
“Because,” I cut in, voice breaking, “I was scared. And I knew if I said I was depressed, people would stop pushing.”
Silence hit like a slap.
Tanya nodded once, like she’d been waiting for honesty. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Now we can move forward.”
Part 3
They put me on administrative leave pending the outcome. When I left the building, the parking lot looked the same—sunlight on windshields, employees walking with lunch bags—but I felt like everyone could see the label on my forehead: Manipulator.
At home, my mom called. “How did it go? Are they taking care of you?” she asked, voice thick with worry.
I almost lied again. The habit was still there, ready to protect me.
But something about Mark’s disappointment kept replaying in my head. The way Tanya had said we’re not diagnosing you—as if she was trying to separate real mental health from the way I’d used it like a costume.
So I told my mom the truth.
There was a long pause on the line. Then she said quietly, “Bree… why would you do that?”
“I didn’t want to be the bad guy,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to be the one who messed up.”
My mom’s voice softened, but it didn’t comfort me the way it used to. “You already were the one who messed up,” she said. “You just made it worse.”
That night, I opened my laptop—no trembling hands, no fog, no inability to function—and I finally wrote down what I’d been avoiding: the real reasons I’d done it. I wasn’t faking depression because I was clever. I was doing it because I was terrified of being ordinary, of being seen as incompetent, of losing respect.
And here’s the part that’s hard to say: I wasn’t completely fine.
I did feel empty sometimes. I did feel anxious. But I’d taken something real people suffer through and used it as a shortcut. I turned a serious thing into a strategy—and in doing that, I disrespected everyone who’s actually fighting that battle.
Two weeks later, Tanya called with the outcome: I was terminated for falsifying compliance documentation. She didn’t sound cruel. She sounded tired, like she’d had this conversation too many times.
Before we hung up, she said, “If you’re struggling, please get help. But help isn’t the same as an excuse.”
After I lost the job, I finally went to therapy—not to get a note, not to perform, but because I didn’t trust myself anymore. I told the therapist, “I lied about being depressed to escape responsibility,” and I waited for judgment.
She didn’t flinch. She said, “Let’s talk about why accountability feels unsafe for you.”
That question hit harder than losing my job.
Now, months later, I still think about the moment it worked—the instant everyone softened, the instant pressure disappeared. It’s tempting to believe I “won” something. But what I really did was trade short-term relief for long-term damage, and I added suspicion to a topic that deserves care.
So here’s my question for you: If someone at work says they’re depressed right after a major mistake, where’s the line between compassion and accountability? And if you were Mark, would you have fired me—or offered one last chance?
Tell me what you think in the comments. I’m genuinely curious how other people see it.
