Annie Qimirpik

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Annie Qimirpik

I used to hear my name and flinch a little.

Not because it was said wrong — though it often was —

but because I didn’t feel like I had earned it.

Not yet.

I was the girl who dropped out of high school then finally graduated at the age of 21.

The one who couldn’t keep a schedule.

Too tired, too flaky, too late, too much, not enough.

I was the one who apologized a lot —

for being quiet, for being loud, for being absent,

for crying, for not showing up,

for showing up and pretending I was okay.

But none of that was really me.

It was the version of me who had been surviving.

For years.

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The Diagnosis

It wasn’t until 2024 that someone finally gave it a name.

Major Depressive Disorder.

Something I had lived for many years that it felt like part of my personality.

I wasn’t lazy.

I wasn’t unreliable.

I wasn’t “dramatic.”

I was sick.

And when I got that diagnosis, it wasn’t some broken badge to carry —

it was clarity.

It was like someone finally turned on a light in a room I’d been fumbling around in for years.

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The Medication

I was prescribed Sertraline.

I watched myself change.

Not all at once.

But little things.

My mornings got easier.

The fog in my brain got quieter.

I could move again.

And the biggest shift?

I stopped blaming myself for everything.

I stopped whispering “I’m sorry” for simply existing.

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The Writing

That’s when I started to write.

Really write.

The kind of writing that wasn’t just venting or storytelling —

it was remembering.

It was reclaiming.

It was survival turned to structure.

Grief turned to grammar.

Pain turned to purpose.

And with each blog I posted, each name I honoured, each story I let live outside my body —

I started to feel like I wasn’t ashamed of being known anymore.

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The Name

Now, when someone says my name —

Annie Qimirpik —

I don’t flinch.

I listen.

Because I built that name back.

Through appointments and prescriptions.

Through missed classes and late graduations.

Through missing work.

Through letters left at a grave.

Through songs sung to a dog.

Through blogs that say the things no one else wanted to admit.

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And maybe that’s what healing really is:

Not a finish line.

Not a perfect week.

Not a label or a relationship or a post that goes viral.

But hearing your own name and knowing —

you fought for it.

And you’re not afraid of being called on anymore.

- Annie Qimirpik