I lost my sense of trust, honesty and compassion. I crashed down

The words of Shania Twain strike like a cry from the depths of the human soul: “I lost my sense of trust, honesty and compassion. I crashed down and became what I consider an emotional mess. I’ve never been so miserable in my whole life. I just wanted to go to bed and never get up.” In this lament we hear the truth of brokenness, the collapse of a spirit once strong, the drowning of light beneath waves of sorrow. It is a testimony to how quickly the pillars of life—trust, honesty, and compassion—can be shattered, and how the human heart, when stripped of them, can fall into despair.

The ancients understood such collapse well. In the tragedies of Greece, heroes did not always fall to swords or spears; often they were undone by grief, betrayal, or the loss of their moral compass. Consider Oedipus, who, upon learning the truth of his life, felt the earth collapse beneath him. His sorrow was not merely external, but internal—the breaking of trust in himself, in destiny, in the gods. Twain’s words echo the same grief: the sense of being crushed not by enemies, but by the weight of inner loss, by the unraveling of one’s own spirit.

To lose trust is to lose the foundation of human relationship. To lose honesty is to lose one’s anchor in truth. To lose compassion is to lose the light that binds the heart to others. Without these, life itself can seem hollow, empty of meaning, and even the simplest act—rising from bed—can feel like an impossible task. Twain gives voice to a darkness that many experience but few dare to speak aloud. Her confession, therefore, is not weakness, but courage—the courage to name despair and, in doing so, to begin its transformation.

History, too, bears witness to such trials. Think of Abraham Lincoln, who suffered what he called the “hypo”—the deep melancholy that left him bedridden, convinced of his own ruin. Yet out of that misery, he slowly forged resilience, turning despair into compassion for the suffering of others. From that pit, he rose to guide a divided nation through civil war. Like Twain, Lincoln knew the crushing weight of wanting only to lie down and never rise. Yet by facing the darkness, he emerged with a heart tempered for greatness.

Twain’s words remind us of a vital truth: even those who seem strongest—those who sing, lead, inspire—are not immune to despair. The breaking of spirit is no respecter of persons. But within the lament lies also the seed of renewal. By admitting brokenness, by confessing “I was an emotional mess,” she opens the door for healing. The first step out of misery is not denial, but recognition. Only when the darkness is named can the light be sought again.

The lesson is clear: despair may come, and when it does, it may strip us of what we thought unshakable. But misery is not the end. It is a passage, a valley through which many have walked, from poets to kings, from singers to saints. The soul may crash down, but it may also rise again. And in rising, it often finds a deeper strength, a renewed trust, a more enduring compassion born from its very suffering.

Practical actions follow: when misery grips you, do not hide it. Speak it aloud, as Twain did, to yourself, to others, to the page. Seek companions who will remind you that despair is survivable. Rebuild slowly: practice honesty even in small things, rekindle compassion with small acts of kindness, and allow trust to return step by step. Above all, refuse to let the wish “never to get up” become your destiny. Rise, however slowly, however painfully, for every rising is an act of defiance against despair, and each day endured is a seed of renewal.