September is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, and in honor of that, I want to share my own story. This isn’t a pretty story — at times it becomes very dark — but I hope that whatever you take from it, you remember this: life is still worth living. The good, the bad, and the in-between are all part of life. It isn’t always consistent, but learning to live in both dualities is what makes us whole. It’s what makes us human.
I’m not going to tell you to embrace positivity or only look at the good things. Sometimes we need to sit in the darkness to truly feel the light. Sometimes relentless positivity feels fake — and honestly, in my worst moments, it pissed me off. Especially as someone who hates to be told what to do, that mindset does not come naturally to me. What I can tell you is this: you can let yourself feel the truth of your darkness, but you don’t have to let it consume you.
When Everything Looked Fine
At the start of September, from the outside, everything looked fine. I was preparing for a race I’d been training for since January. I was in the best shape of my life, accomplishing physical feats I never could have dreamed of. For all intents and purposes, I was the “same old me” — smiling and laughing, giving people exactly what they expected of me.
But that, I think, is part of the problem: I was giving people what I thought they wanted, rather than aligning with what I truly was able to give and who I really was in that moment. About a week before I was set to leave for my race, I broke.
I sat on the bathroom floor, body shaking, dry-heaving, sobbing. I felt like a lost child again. A deep sense of emptiness settled into my bones, stripping me of everything I had ever known or felt. For the first time in years, I began to write “that letter” — to my friends and family — fully prepared to leave the world. I couldn’t see the point in carrying on.
Reaching Out
The only thing that held me back in that moment was thinking of others. My last lifeline was a call to my father — not the person you’d expect me to call first in a moment of darkness. My family and I have a complicated history, but I decided to call anyway. It was 3 a.m. He didn’t pick up, but I left a voicemail full of sobs, telling him I was struggling.
The next person I thought of was my best friend and roommate, Tommy. We’d been training for the race together, and I felt guilty about leaving him to do it alone. I thought of my friends who would have been crushed by my absence. I’d been on the receiving end of that kind of letter before, and I knew how devastating it was. Even with that knowledge, a part of me still believed the world would be better without me in it.
I went through a mental Rolodex of ways to end my life and tried to settle on an option that felt “right.” Looking back, I realize the hesitation — even the call to my father — were signs I wasn’t ready to give up on myself. But still, that night I went to sleep hoping, praying I wouldn’t wake up the next day.
The Weight Beneath the Smile
My sadness has always been there like a fine dust on an antique. Nothing tangible at first, but if you swipe it away, grime clings to your finger. Swipe too hard, and the antique itself might shatter. I’ve always wondered if it meant I was actually depressed or if this is just the way I’m meant to feel. This past month, I’ve had random bouts of crying — sneaking away to wipe my tears or fully breaking down in the bathroom. Sometimes I feel nothing at all, even during moments when I think I “should” feel something. I know what peace and contentment feel like, even if fleeting. That’s how I know the strange coldness of feeling empty isn’t meant to be there.
I’ve gone through long periods in life of self-isolation — months when I barely spoke to anyone, when my friends had to do a wellness check. I’ve derailed my own path before, dropping out of school, failing classes. I’ve consumed too much alcohol, let eating disorders peak, and lashed out at family and friends when they didn’t deserve it. The guilt lingers, especially when I tell people I’m getting better but still feel stuck. Depression and anxiety don’t look the same for everyone, and that makes it hard to feel understood. The last thing I ever want to be is a burden to my friends and family.
On the outside, people see me as happy, outgoing, and laughing. On the inside, I’ve often felt like I’m fading — a kind of necrosis, a constant undercurrent of sadness and a restless anger. Over time, they’ve blurred together, leaving me unsure of what I feel. I’ve learned to plaster on a smile — the easy-going version of myself people seem to prefer — but keeping the facade takes its toll. Sometimes it cracks, and I retreat into silence, feeling guilty for bringing down the mood. Yet pretending only to be happy feels just as inauthentic, and I can’t negate the hard, uncomfortable feelings. I’m learning that to fully experience life, I have to embrace both sides — the joy and the sorrow — without apology. Maybe it’s time to move past the people-pleasing version of myself.
As someone who prides herself on self-awareness, that reality can feel especially unsettling. Sometimes I can even trace my lows to physical causes — not eating, not sleeping, shutting down — but knowing the causes doesn’t stop the guilt, overcompensating, and eventual burnout. It’s a loop I know all too well.
Thinking back to that moment now, I see the irony. I consider myself an empath and feel so deeply for others, but at that time, I couldn’t extend the same compassion and grace to myself. That’s something I’m trying to work on. Perfection is a concept, not a goal — and learning to offer myself grace is part of why I’m still here.
Glimpses of Perspective
The race itself didn’t “fix” everything, just as one thing never will. But as I pushed through mile after mile, I realized: if I had followed through with my plan that night, I would have missed this moment. I wouldn’t have given myself the chance to endure, to overcome. A rush of emotions hit me: pride, disbelief, and the quiet realization that my view of success needed to change. Crossing that finish line wasn’t triumph in the traditional sense but rather proof that even broken, I could still keep moving forward.
Later, I visited the Van Gogh Museum. Van Gogh lived with immense mental pain, but his vulnerability gave the world beauty. His illness didn’t define him — it became part of his art, part of his story. One line stood out most: “His mental vulnerability was part of who he was.”
Standing in front of his art, reading about his life, I felt something shift. The quotes on the wall seemed as if they were written specifically with me in mind. As if I had known the man himself, because I could feel his struggle, his purpose, and his anguish.
I was in awe as I lingered by his self-portraits, contemplating the differing versions of one man. Each one divulged a story: a discovery, a dichotomy that only self-exploration can reveal. The brushstrokes were raw, chaotic, yet deeply human. It was as if he stared back at me, saying: You can be a multitude; fractured but still beautiful. We are not our mental state; we are always more. That reminder that fragility can coexist with strength — we are not defined by our weakest moments — stayed with me.
I also often think of Oscar Wilde’s words: “If you know what you want to be, then you inevitably become it — that is your punishment. But if you never know, then you can be anything.”
Not knowing what to do with my life has often left me feeling lost. But realizing that even Van Gogh didn’t start his career as an artist until 27 gives me some comfort as I approach my own 27th birthday this November. In a slightly morbid way, I understand the “27 Club.” I thought I’d be further — with more savings, a clear career, a relationship, something concrete. Instead, I feel like I’m treading water with no land in sight.
But maybe there’s pride to be found in living authentically, even in uncertainty. Maybe not knowing is a kind of freedom. No, I don’t have everything figured out. I’ve built resilience, crossed finish lines, and begun creating a space for my story, and maybe that’s more valuable than having it all figured out.
Overcoming the Duality
This message is as much to myself as it is to anyone reading: you are not your weakest moments, your worst thoughts, or your darkest nights. Surviving them is your strength.
There are still good days, great days even when I’m overcome with so much gratitude and love I never thought was possible. Without dark days, good days would not exist — duality gives meaning to both sides.
It takes time to develop your sense of self, and something I am still working on. No amount of money or material possessions can make me love myself — that work starts on the inside, and I’ve come a long way to truly love myself even in the darkness. That might sound strange after everything I’ve written, but I truly do.
I’ve finally taken the scary step to receive help through medication, and as someone with a medical background, I know how powerful this can be. For a long time, I saw it as a weakness, but there is nothing weak about getting help from friends, family, or a licensed professional.
I’ve never taken medication before, so this is new territory for me, but I’m hopeful. I also plan to return to therapy, perhaps trying somatic therapy for the first time.
Moving Forward
Working through your problems is never going to be a detriment to yourself — it’s an act of strength. If you’re like me, you don’t need all the answers now; you just need to begin. Don’t be overcritical. Listen. That voice inside your head is you, so be kinder. Every day, I remind myself of that love, even with something as small as hugging my own reflection in the mirror.
I hope that whoever reads this knows you are not alone. You have a voice and a purpose, even if you haven’t discovered it yet. You can take the steps towards tangible change, and I’m going to be on that same journey with you. To those who have lost their battle, we carry your memory with us always. And to those still fighting, know that even in the absence of light, you are not alone.
I’ll leave you with this last quote: “To dream is to journey into the depths of one’s own soul.” – Nancy Willard. So never stop dreaming, darlings — the world still needs what only you can bring.
If any of this resonates with you, you’re welcome to share or comment — you are not alone here.
⚠️ Crisis Resources
If you are in the U.S. and need immediate support, dial 988 to connect with the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you’re outside the U.S., visit findahelpline.com to locate resources in your country. Please reach out — your life matters.
Dichotomy Project 