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My office released a brief statement: “First Lady Diane Patrick is being treated for exhaustion and depression. The governor will work a flexible schedule for the next few weeks in order to spend more time with her and his family. The family asks for the prayers and understanding of the public.”

Then we waited.

We had long conversations about the possibility of my resigning and resuming our private lives. There were moments when I was willing—being governor is an episode in my life; Diane is my life—but she didn’t want to feel responsible for giving up something we had worked so hard for. There were other moments when Diane, imagining the resumption of her role as first lady, asked me to quit, but I said we should wait to decide until she got out of the hospital.

Ultimately, we decided together that I would continue as governor, and it was for the best. If I had resigned, it would have appeared as if the pressures had forced Diane into the hospital and me out of office. The reality was that Diane’s difficulties were far more complex and could be traced to her first marriage and even to her childhood. And given how hard so many people had worked for us—how much hope people had invested in us during the campaign—I wanted to complete my term and carry through on my promises.

What was most gratifying was the response Diane received to the announcement. The letters and cards began coming in, many from others who had suffered from mental illness, often hiding it for years. Colleagues, friends, legislators and others in public life, their spouses, total strangers—they thanked her for going public. Schoolchildren sent letters, poems, and pictures. One woman knitted a prayer shawl. E-mails came from overseas. Even the media displayed a restraint and respectfulness that was reassuring, even touching. I would carry boxes of letters to the hospital. Thousands would eventually write.

Some letters said we care about you.

Many said we’re praying for you.

Others: we love you.

Diane drew strength from this outpouring of affection and support, and she believed she had to be strong for those individuals. Each one made her “incrementally brave,” she likes to say. She was released from the hospital after two weeks and was soon ready to return to her job. Her first day back, she woke up, put on her suit, and told me, “I’m back.” She resumed devouring the morning newspaper.

Since then, she has given many public speeches about her experiences. After one such appearance, a woman told Diane that she was alive today because Diane’s openness made her think that “if the first lady can publicly acknowledge her illness—and survive—then surely I can acknowledge mine to myself and get help.” Television reporters have interviewed her, mental health organizations have given her awards, and she continues skillfully to juggle her full-time responsibilities as lawyer, mother, wife, community activist, and first lady of Massachusetts.

In many ways, the political adversity I’ve faced as governor has paled in comparison to the personal adversity Diane has faced, so it’s entirely fitting that her poll numbers, if tracked, would be higher than mine. Hers is the lesson that endures. It would have been easy for this intensely private woman to quit her public life and just lie low until my term in office ended. But she took the hard road traveled by heroines. She did not give in but fought to overcome her circumstances. She did not try to go it alone but sought help from friends, family, and professionals. She did not engage in self-pity but took responsibility for her own well-being. She was not too proud to acknowledge her own limitations.

By speaking out, she has helped remove the stigma of mental illness and—I believe—given courage to anyone who has a disease to be open about his or her condition, to seek help when necessary, and to strive to be a role model for others. She is amazed at her own strength. The people of the Commonwealth—and the governor—are awed by it.

Chapter 8

I was six or seven years