World Suicide Prevention Day

If you are triggered by suicide or the mention of gunshots, please read with caution.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.

Suicide is something I have a direct history with. It’s something that has brushed painfully close to my life in ways I’ll never forget. The day my mom died from cancer was the same day my brother-in-law’s dad took his own life.

Two very different endings.

My mom wanted to live. She wanted to fight the cancer and fight for more time. She didn’t get the chance—her body didn’t let her. Hours later, someone else made the choice to leave this world.

It’s hard to grapple with that. To sit in the reality of one person who desperately wanted to stay but couldn’t, and another who decided they couldn’t carry on. It’s easy to feel anger—anger at the unanswered questions, anger at the chaos suicide leaves behind. But what I’ve come to understand is that suicide doesn’t come from selfishness. It comes from hopelessness.

When someone is in that place, they’re not weighing pros and cons the way we imagine. They’re not thinking about how much they’re loved, or about all the things they’d miss out on. To them, the love is invisible under the weight of their pain. The thought isn’t, “I want to leave everyone I love behind.” The thought is, “Everyone I love will be better off without me.”

Suicidal thinking is rarely about death itself—it’s about wanting the pain to stop. It’s the desperation of not being able to see past the darkness in front of you. It’s waking up every day with the same ache and wondering if it will ever end. It’s feeling trapped in your own mind, where no matter what you do, the thoughts keep circling back to hopelessness.

It can sound like:

“I’m tired of being a burden.”

“Nothing will ever change.”

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“Everyone else deserves better.”

That’s why mental health matters. That’s why talking about the dark, the ugly, and the hard stuff matters. When silence builds walls, hopelessness grows stronger. But when we bring those feelings into the open—when we give them air, compassion, and listening ears—it can loosen their grip, even just a little.

My First Experience With Suicide

My first experience with suicide came in my early-20s, after I left a toxic relationship.

It was four years of control, manipulation, and abuse—emotional, psychological, physical. I wasn’t allowed to see certain people. Slowly, I was cut off from family. I had to explain unknown numbers in my phone, and with my memory, that meant fights that spiraled until I was screamed at or bruised. There were days I couldn’t even go to work—not because I didn’t want to, but because I wasn’t allowed to, or because I’d been left too broken down to stand up straight. Isolated in a world I didn’t know how to escape.

When I finally got the courage to leave, I thought it was over. But the manipulation only escalated. Suddenly, there was a story of a childhood cancer returning. Emails from a “doctor” began showing up in my inbox. Chemo appointments scheduled after hours. At the time, I didn’t know that was impossible—no one has chemo at 9 p.m. Doctors don't send emails from a yahoo.com account—but I was young, and I believed. I wanted to help.

Then came the night everything shattered. I had worked two jobs that day, came home exhausted, and wanted a nap before the “appointment.” When I woke up, I had the strangest feeling—like something inside me was screaming not to go. Intuition is real, and it saved my life that night. I canceled. I texted and said no - I didn't want to go to the appointment that night. I didn't want to continue to be a part of this journey. I was done. I sit here now with complete confidence that had I shown up that night, I would not be here typing this. I called a friend and told her how I was feeling. I was terrified I was going to end up hurt that night. She came over and stayed with me, but we ended up walking around the apartment complex to what was my ex's spot. I was terrified she was there. That night, I found her in her car, in her old parking spot, with a gunshot wound to the head.

The next 48 hours were a blur of trauma. At the hospital, I was shut out by her family. I was told I could only come back if I signed over rights to life insurance, joint accounts, debts—things we had built together over the 4 years. When I refused, I was pushed further out. I was kicked out of the hospital. I wasn’t allowed at the funeral. Online, people told me it was my fault. Strangers messaged me hateful things. Friends I thought I could count on disappeared. I had to start over with practically nothing. I had my 2 dogs and the personal items I took into the relationship. The family took everything else.

Days later, I found out from the police that there had been a note. I only remember one line: “I’m sorry for all the lies.”

I’ll never know what “the lies” were. Maybe the fake cancer. Maybe more. Probably all of it. That chapter of my life left me with scars that don’t always show on the surface, but trauma has a way of staying in your body. You think you’ve moved on—until something triggers it, and you’re right back there.

When It All Came Flooding Back

That’s what happened the night my brother-in-law’s dad died.

I got the text, and my whole body started shaking. We hadn't even made it home from the hospital yet, after mom had died. My mind went blank. I was back in that moment in my 20s, back in the helplessness and chaos. My body remembered. I'm normally calm in the face of chaos, but I didn't know what to do.

That night, though, something beautiful happened. People just showed up. Friends, family. No one planned it, no one called each other. They just came. And while my brother-in-law might not have thought he wanted that, it ended up being exactly what he needed: people sitting in the grief with him.

That’s the best of humanity. People show up. And it helps—but it doesn’t erase the questions. Why? Did I miss something? Could I have done more?

I’ve had to learn the hard way that sometimes, once someone makes up their mind, it’s almost impossible to change it. That doesn’t mean what we do doesn’t matter—it means that even if our words don’t save them, our presence, our conversations, and our courage to ask can make a difference.

The Hard Conversations

September is Suicide Prevention Month. And this month is a reminder to talk about the things we don’t want to.

Because suicide doesn’t always look like someone crying all the time. Sometimes it looks like recklessness, or anger, or smiling in photos while breaking on the inside. Sometimes it looks like nothing at all. I never saw it coming with my ex. When I try to think back and find signs that this was what we were leading to, nothing stands out. Sometimes it looks like pretending everything is ok.

Signs to look for can include:

• Withdrawal from friends, family, or activities.

• Drastic changes in sleep, appetite, or energy.

• Giving away belongings or tying up loose ends.

• Talking about being a burden, feeling hopeless, or not wanting to live.

• Reckless behavior or increased drinking/drug use.

• A sudden calmness after a deep depression.

How to Help Someone You Love

If you see these signs—or if something just feels off—don’t ignore it.

• Ask directly. It’s okay to say, “Are you thinking about suicide?” Asking doesn’t cause suicide—it creates space for honesty.

• Listen without judgment. You don’t need to fix it. Sometimes the most powerful thing is just sitting with someone in their pain.

• Encourage professional help. Offer to help them find a therapist, call a hotline, or go with them.

• Stay connected. A simple text or call can mean everything.

• Act in crisis. If someone is in immediate danger, call 911 or get them to the ER.

If You’re Struggling Yourself

If you’re the one carrying thoughts that scare you, I want you to hear me: you are not alone, and you are not a burden. Your life matters. Your pain is real, but it doesn’t have to be permanent. There are people who can help carry it with you. They want to help carry it with you.

Resources:

• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Dial 988 if you’re in the U.S.

• Crisis Text Line – Text HELLO to 741741.

• NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) – 1-800-950-NAMI or text NAMI to 741741.

• The Trevor Project – For LGBTQ+ youth: 1-866-488-7386 or text START to 678-678.

My Personal Takeaway

I’ve seen loss from different angles: as the partner left behind, as the family member supporting someone else’s loss, as the daughter grieving a mom who desperately wanted to live and a dad who left with no warning. None of these experiences are easy. They’ve left me with scars and with questions I’ll never fully answer.

But they’ve also taught me something: showing up matters. Having the hard conversations matters. Asking the uncomfortable questions matters.

So now, I check in. I send the text. I pay attention when someone pulls away. I don’t assume silence means someone is fine. And even when it feels awkward or heavy, I’d rather risk being “too much” than miss the chance to remind someone they’re not alone.

Because every life matters. You matter. Your life matters. Tomorrow needs you.