On Depression, Rest, and What Tezzeret Taught Me About Wanting Too Much

May 01, 2025

I was supposed to release a video this week. It was one of those ideas that hit like lightning—Tezzeret as Magic: The Gathering‘s Great Gatsby. The perfect blend of hubris and heartbreak, ambition and artifice. I was going to talk about the shimmering lies of progress, the way Tezzeret reshapes himself and others in a desperate attempt to matter, to belong. How much of his story is a reflection of a man so caught up in the dream of being someone that he obliterates everything real in his path.

The outline was sharp. The literary parallels flowed easily—Tezzeret’s gilded ambitions mirrored Gatsby’s lavish illusions. His longing for acceptance, for a version of power that could validate his worth, echoed Fitzgerald’s doomed dreamer perfectly. I had lines I was proud of. I had my camera ready. I even had an end segment planned where I’d talk about the false glitter of Esper and the corrosion hiding underneath.

But I didn’t release the video.

Because depression came down like a fog I didn’t see until I was already lost in it.

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There’s this particular kind of silence that settles in when depression hits—it’s not just quiet, it’s hollow. It makes everything feel further away. I’d sit at my desk, stare at my script, and feel like I was trying to read it through frosted glass. The passion was there somewhere, buried, but unreachable. I kept telling myself I was just being lazy. That if I really cared about this project, about the people who watch these videos, I’d push through. I’d find a way.

But here’s the truth: depression doesn’t care how much you love something.

It doesn’t matter that I love the lore, that I love drawing lines between Magic and classic literature, that I believe in what I’m building. Depression makes all of that feel small. It turns stories into noise. It makes time feel heavy, and even opening the editing software feels like a mistake you’ve already failed at.

What hurt the most wasn’t the depression—it was the shame. The whisper in my brain that said, You’re disappointing people. You’re weak. You’re falling behind. And it doesn’t help that we live in a culture—especially online—that rewards constant productivity. Release. Post. Keep going. Keep grinding. Build the brand.

But creativity isn’t a machine. It’s a heartbeat. And sometimes that heartbeat slows down.

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And maybe, weirdly, that brings me back to Tezzeret. Because what is Tezzeret if not someone who keeps forcing himself forward no matter the cost? He shreds himself apart to fit into the image he thinks will finally make him enough. He replaces his body piece by piece, never pausing to ask if power will really fix the ache underneath. He’s always building, always clawing, always wanting. And it never saves him.

In some ways, he’s the perfect metaphor for burnout.

The difference is—unlike Tezzeret—I’m trying to choose a different path.

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Taking a break doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I care enough to come back whole.

Resting isn’t weakness. It’s not failure. It’s not apathy. It’s the breath between turns. The space where you remember what the game is really about.

The video will still happen. Tezzeret’s twisted journey through ambition and identity will still get its time in the spotlight. And when it does, it’ll be better—because I’ll have taken the time to feel again. To want again—not out of desperation, but out of love.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt the weight of depression, of guilt for not being “productive,” I want you to know you’re not alone. You’re not behind. You’re not broken.

The next story will still be there when you’re ready.

And so will we.