The Paul G. Quinnett Lived Experience Winning Competition Submissions
AAS is proud to share winning submissions of the Paul G. Quinnett Lived Experience Writing Competition to promote the messages of attempt survivors and those with lived experiences.
2025 Winners
1st Place: “The Falcon, the See-Glass, the Dog, and…Santa Claus?” by Kataline Gille
I first decided I wanted to try falconry because of Richie Tenenbaum, a character in my favorite movie The Royal Tenenbaums, who, ironically, also attempts suicide. My only real reason for wanting to give the activity a whirl was the simple fact that it looked really, really cool….which it definitely was when I finally tried it earlier this year. The experience taught me so much about the majestic birds I’d previously only admired from behind the screen, and it also enlightened me about the purpose of a falconry hood: to reduce stimulation by making the bird completely blind, thus keeping it calm and relaxed. The falcon must then trust completely in its handler to keep it safe and transport it to its destination. It sees not the path before it, nor what the future holds. It sees nothing but darkness…
Reading Laurie Halse Anderson’s novel Wintergirls serves as somewhat of a rite of passage for any anorexic, including sixteen-year-old me. Lia, an eighteen-year-old with severe anorexia, narrates the story, spending the majority of the work carrying around a piece of “see-glass” that she obtains from her best friend, Cassie’s, coffin after Cassie succumbs to bulimia at the novel’s start. In a flashback to their first meeting as young children, Cassie informs Lia that this “see-glass” is named as such because if you look through it when the stars align just right, it reveals your future.
Now I’ll tell you a secret: I have my own see-glass; I’m convinced everyone does, or at least that they possess the potential to pick up a piece of their own. But I spent most of my life with no see-glass in sight, the fearful falcon with hood fused so tight over my eyes I couldn’t see the ground below me, much less my future. This inability to see past the here and now caused me to become suicidal, but by removing the metaphorical hood and taking steps to build a future I believed in, I found the exit to the tunnel of darkness I thought constituted my destiny, and also ascertained the ability to embrace the idea of a life worth living.
Prior to my trip down the sewer-slide—a term produced by my dark humor coupled with my tendency to try and make light of the darkness—I didn’t believe my future was bright, largely because I couldn’t see it at all. Mental illness had haunted my whole life, and at the beginning of 2023, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, which still regularly puts me through the wringer.
Most importantly, although I didn’t know it at the time, the concentration of lithium in my blood was so scant as to be almost completely ineffective at managing my bipolar disorder, resulting in devitalizing depression coupled with simultaneous manic symptoms that, twisted, distorted, and mixed up my reality. My see-glass now served as nothing but a funhouse mirror, warping my worries until I was weary of living life. My symptoms shook and juddered together, creating a nightmarish cocktail that bloomed a deadly belief about myself and my own life: that I had simply been born ill-equipped to survive due to the early onset of my anxiety disorder and the mental and physical havoc it evolved into. I even began drafting a novel based on the concept—a concept that spawned the belief that things would never get better…which provided the excuse I was looking for to stop trying and to treat the tears as viable validation that I was, in fact, unviable. Truthfully, it was a pity party masquerading as a philosophy.
It became a scapegoat—one set on hightailing it into hell with me clutching the horns.
And so I became a falcon set on a frightening flight path. The hood descended over my head, the fastenings fused around my neck, and the only future I saw for myself was a terrifying tunnel of dangerous darkness.
On the night of January fourth, 2024, I spontaneously decided to end my life, leaving the draft of my germinating novel open on my laptop next to me as my version of a note.
I spent four days in my local hospital’s emergency wing before transferring to one that specialized in broken glass on the pavement after a car crash: the psychiatric hospital that had treated me three times prior. There, they provided me with a composition notebook that I titled My Zelda Fitzgerald Moment, proving no humor had been harmed in the making of the attempted un-making. I filled it with notes, journal entries, lists, and, especially, poetry. One of these poems marks the point at which my maladaptive conviction ruptured and rifted apart into a roil of rubble.
During her life, Cassie never allows Lia to look through the see-glass. But at the novel’s climax, as Lia’s starved body starts to shut down while she’s snowed in alone at a motel, she picks up the see-glass and peers through it for the first time, and when she does, a million futures flash before her eyes, futures bright with the promise of a personhood as more than just the miserable anorexic she’s cast herself as. Her hood flies off, and she sees all her futures as hers—all dependent on her potential choices, but all hers, nonetheless. At this moment, she finds the strength to pick up the phone and call for help, and her recovery finally begins.
In a poem I wrote in the hospital—my turning point, my see-glass—I personify Death as a warmhearted figure I’d once been excited to meet. I write that I’d expected to look in his “kindly eye, and hold out my hand, and go to him gladly…” I continue to write that when I did meet him, I instead looked him in his “dirty eye, and got scared. So instead of going with him, I took a small step back…” This poem marks the moment when I made a conscious choice to run from death—the moment that truly saved my life by projecting a path, not free from pain, but mine and beautiful, all the same.
As I wrote, the hood’s strings and fastenings tangled around my pen, and the implement furiously made its way across the page, pulling them looser and looser, until finally, they came completely undone. The hood flew off in a jubilant flutter, and I saw my future laid out before me like the ripe promise of an open flower.
A few months after leaving the hospital…after my lithium was leveled to lift the depression and leave the mania in the dust…after multiple sessions with a new therapist…after choosing to create a new future by beginning esthetician school just three weeks after my attempt…after several intensive ketamine sessions aimed at lessening the fibromyalgia symptoms and ameliorating my mental health…after poetry began to hemorrhage from me like the blood that used to flow from my self-inflicted wounds…
I wrote a poem called “At Least a Dog Is Something.”
I don’t believe in any type of an afterlife. I thought the sewer-slide would let out into The Great Abyss of Nothing, and at the time, I wore that thought like a warm blanket on a bone-cold night. But now? Now, that just sounds plain sad. In writing “At Least a Dog Is Something,” I realized I’d rather be a dog, or a deer, or even a duvet cover, than nothing. I’d spent so long drowning, weighed down by dread, and wishing myself dead, but once I knew, truly knew, that I could paddle through life’s waves—doggy paddle, if we’re being cute—the fire of hope kindled in my blood and took me over, and I became steel forged in flame, pain, surrender, and redemption.Whereas previously, I’d wanted to be nothing, I now realized I wanted to be everything…but one thing especially.
During one of my regular drives from Savannah to Charleston for a ketamine infusion near the end of 2024, I discovered Andrea Gibson. Their poetry poured from my car’s speakers into my ears like a hope transfusion. It gave me goosebumps; it made me cry so hard tears drenched my cheeks. But the tears didn’t go to waste. Instead, they watered the hope seeds I’d planted in my shirt pocket and worked to grow a garden from the heart, whose roots rooted me to that particular place in perpetuity and stamped out my sense of self as simply a permanent placeholder. And, alas, I tasted honey after too long eating smoke and ash.
So, bolstered by the raw beauty of Gibson’s poetry, I doubled down on writing my own. I’ve been a storyteller since I could speak and a writer since I could hold a pencil, but had always leaned more toward fiction than poetry. Now, I realize the “something” I wanted so desperately to be…was a poet. Although I am self taught, and my talent is raw, I’ve discovered I have an affinity for alliteration, allegory, and assonance. And, as I read and listened to more of Gibson’s work, as well as that of other poets, I decided I wanted to try performing.
Now, let me remind you—my panic attacks started in preschool. Any time I had to read aloud, or, god forbid, present in front of the class, it was with shaking voice, sweating palms, and stuttering heart. But this May, I performed at my very first poetry open mic, and I’ve not looked back since. Now I perform at one or two events most weeks, and it’s my favorite thing in the world…besides writing poetry, of course.
In addition to performing, I began submitting poems to publications near the beginning of this year. At first, waves of rejection rushed back at me, but one night, while at dinner with my family, I saw it in my inbox—an acceptance email! I screamed right there in the middle of the restaurant, so the other diners may have wished me dead, but in that moment, I felt so sweetly alive, so grateful for my own proud existence. Then, a couple of months later, I woke up in the middle of the night and checked my phone. I meant to check the time, and only expected to see some assorted emails and notifications on my home screen. Instead, my phone displayed another acceptance email! Even in my sleep-stunned state, my heart quickened, skipped, and jumped about, at once excited, elated, thrilled, and proud.
But the crumbs of poetic success I began to amass weren’t just…crumbs of poetic success. These breadcrumbs marked my path through the Faithless Forest and toward a fabulous future. Now, every time I spy new crumbs lodged between leaves of grass or perched atop a mossy mound, my chosen path reveals itself even more.
Furthermore, the crumbs comprise not just meaningless bread; each victory accompanies invaluable access to skills that actually improve my quality of life and allow me to keep truckin’ along instead of slip-sidin’ toward Doomsday. Performing teaches me to actually embrace my anxiety as something to conquer, not fear. My first time in front of that microphone, both my voice and my body quaked with terror. I could barely make it through my poem, much less read three—three!—poems after joking around with the audience like I did earlier this week. In real life terms, this means my heart no longer pounds every time I have to make a phone call. Similarly, submitting to publications does wonders to help my fear of rejection, which previously played a massive role in my social anxiety. Overall, immersing myself in the world of poetry teaches me the distress tolerance skills that therapists spent years encouraging me to implement—prerequisites for living a full, meaningful life that I’m excited to stick around and see out.
Through poetry, I learned to see my own potential—a skill that chronic depression usually steals first. I stopped assuming my writing would be rejected by Every Single Publication, or that the audience would laugh me off the stage. Most importantly, I learned that feelings aren’t facts, that I can feel scared and not let it stop me from doing The Thing, whether that’s putting my writing out there, wearing a form-fitting dress on a bad body image day, or trying to befriend the ultra-cool new coworker.
This past Monday, I climbed in my car and drove to Water Witch Tiki Bar for their weekly Poetry Night. I hadn’t even made it inside when Margo stopped me—another Poetry Night regular, she’s an elderly woman hiding a heart of steel within her frail frame, and is also quite possibly the coolest person I’ve ever met.
“I thought you weren’t coming back!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been thinking of you.”
I’d only been gone for two weeks, the first due to a fibromyalgia flare and the second due to a family emergency. But over and over throughout the night, other regulars accosted me, all gushing with the same sentiment.
Even now, I rarely know, really know and understand and feel, when someone truly cares about me, so when it’s not just one person, but an entire room full of people who I’m now realizing are found family? The idea makes awe and gratitude wrap around me like the warmest hug. Today is Thursday, and over the past three days, all I’ve been able to think is…
What if I really had never come back?
If I’m being honest, my future still looks like darkness. But instead of the hood’s soul-stealing bleakness, it now looks more like the inside of Santa’s sack, and I’m the gleeful kid robbing his sleigh while he’s passed out on too much peppermint schnapps. I smile broadly, about to reach my arm inside. Will I pull out a train set? A Barbie? A puppy?
So I grab hold of the hood that still hangs ‘round my neck, and I rip it off—for good this time—and I chuck it into the snow beyond. I hear a thump.
Did I just knock out Santa? I wonder. And then I decide I don’t care, because his sack yawns open before me, and anything I can see in my mind’s eye, I can have. But what do I want? I pull the see-glass out of my pocket and look through it, hoping it’ll offer some clue, but it’s no help, because all I see is everything good, sweet, and pure, and more than that, I see that it all belongs to me. So I reach my hand into the sack, and I wish for a future as a poet, one who cracks jokes with the audience before reading and gets published by Button Poetry and then transmogrifies those experiences into the ingredients required to live a full, happy life. And even if I don’t end up getting exactly that…well, maybe I’ll pull out a puppy.
And, hey! At least a dog is something.
2nd Place: “Tomorrow will be the day I die” by Carrie Badillo
I was pregnant with our first child, and the world I expected to welcome him into had collapsed. My husband was gone. He had been the steady hand, the provider, the imagined partner in every small and large future I had held. Suddenly I was a single mother-to-be, forced to quit graduate school, forced to imagine how I would feed, clothe, and love a child when I felt as if my own life had been stripped of value. The future looked less like possibility and more like a long list of liabilities: welfare forms, nights of dread, the quiet knowledge that the safety net I’d believed in was fraying at the seams.
I was isolated — utterly and painfully alone. We did not come from families that offered refuge or steady hands; the people I should have been able to call for help were absent, conflicted, or simply unable to understand the depth of what I was carrying. What I longed for was simple: someone to sit beside me, someone to say, “you don’t have to carry this alone.” But instead, there was only silence, and the growing sense that I was invisible in the very moment I most needed to be seen.
My husband’s death came like a thunderclap, sudden and violent, and then grief followed like a slow-rising river, spilling over its banks until it flooded every corner of my life. People told me to look to the future—be grateful for the baby, for any new beginning. They meant well, but gratitude was a language I did not yet speak. Shame braided itself with despair. I was a Hispanic woman on public assistance, a mother without a partner, carrying a fragile life inside and believing that the only mercy might be the end of my own. I thought often of why I should endure the humiliation, the exhaustion, the deep loneliness. I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to be near the person who had died, and in my fogged thinking I believed that dying would be a shortcut to reunion and relief. It was all I thought about as I forced myself to go through the motions of daily living. But I wasn’t truly living. I was heartbroken and had no will to go on.
And then one night after I had cried myself to sleep, I dreamed a scene so clear and luminous it became my lifeline.
I was chasing a child through a bright green park. The light had the soft clarity of late afternoon—sun through leaves, warm and forgiving—and the child ran ahead, laughing like a bell. He turned, and I saw familiar eyes that felt like sunlight on my skin. In that instant something in my chest unfurled: a sudden, undeniable flood of joy, of pure love that belonged to me. For the first time in weeks, I felt love not as something external coming from another person, but as a presence that came from inside me and overflowed outward.
When I awoke, what struck me was not only the image of my son but the unmistakable truth that the love I felt in the dream came from inside me. My son may have been the object of my love, but the source was me. This was a profound realization. Until that moment, I had believed love was something that came from someone else — my husband, my family — and when he died, I felt as though I had lost not only him but also his love. The dream showed me that love is not something that disappears with loss; it is something we carry, something we are.
From that moment on, I knew that love would see us through every challenge, every difficult decision — and there would be many. Love would not erase my grief or solve the practical burdens waiting in daylight, but it gave me a thread strong enough to keep moving. In a way, it was my first lesson in mindfulness: learning to anchor myself in what was still here, not what had been taken away. A hand pressed to my belly, a single breath, the warmth of my son’s body against mine — these were reminders that love was not gone but alive inside me, accessible in the present moment.
That truth carried me through the messier realities of survival. There were nights when my son cried and I gave into frustration and joined, mornings when bills stacked on the counter seemed like evidence of failure, afternoons when I wondered whether I could ever be enough for him. But then I would place my hand on his chest, hear his breath, feel his warmth — and remember that the source of love had not left me. These ordinary moments became small practices of presence, simple acts of mindfulness that tethered me to life. Each act of rocking him, feeding him, or simply watching him sleep was not only care for him but care for myself.
As he grew, my understanding of love grew with him. What began as a private lifeline between mother and child expanded into a way of being. His laughter reminded me that joy was possible; his needs reminded me that care could be steady even when imperfect. Through him I learned that love is not measured in grand gestures but in presence — in showing up, in listening, in choosing patience when exhaustion threatened to undo me.
And slowly, that practice of love widened beyond us. I began to notice it in others — in the weariness of another young mother in a clinic waiting room, in the quiet grief of a neighbor who had also lost someone dear. At first it was only a glance, a nod, a brief exchange that said, I see you. But even those small connections mattered. Reaching out was not about fixing or saving; it was about offering the same presence that had carried me. Over time, those gestures grew into volunteering, listening, and simply sitting with people who felt unseen. Love, once my survival, became my service.
Looking back, I see now that survival was never a single decision made once and for all. It was a thousand small choices to stay — to rise for one more morning, to hum one more lullaby, to notice one more flicker of joy. Love was the thread that carried me through grief and exhaustion, and it is the thread that still carries me now.
If my story can do one thing, I hope it shows that survival is possible, not because despair disappears, but because love endures. We do not need to wait for love to come from someone else — it lives in us, even when loss and silence try to convince us otherwise. Love carried me through my darkest nights, guided me in caring for my son, and continues to shape my service to others.
And what I know now is this: we are love. My lived experience has taught me that love is not somewhere far away or something that can be taken by loss — it is here, in our breath, in our presence, in our choosing to stay. Because it is who we are, we can never truly be without it — and where there is love, there is always hope.
3rd Place: “When Silence Nearly Killed Me” by Dan Fendley
I spent sixteen years as a cop. People imagine that kind of career as adrenaline, raids, chasing suspects down dark streets. And there was some of that. But the part that nearly killed me wasn’t the adrenaline. It was the silence.
In the police you learn fast: don’t show weakness. Don’t let anyone see fear, grief, or doubt. If you do, you’ll be seen as unreliable, a liability. So I locked it all away. Every body I stood over, every family I had to deliver the worst news to, every violent scene, every image I couldn’t unsee, I packed it down tight and carried on. Drinking helped. Joking helped. At least for a while.
What I didn’t understand then was that silence doesn’t make trauma disappear. It just buries it deeper, where it grows in the dark.
My Breaking Point
The work that finally broke me wasn’t a raid or a gunpoint arrest. It was child safeguarding.
I was handed a desk, a computer, and a task: sift through the worst material the internet produces. Images. Videos. Nameless victims who had been abused, exploited, treated as if they weren’t human. My job was to watch, to document, to build cases. Day after day.
People think trauma comes from one big event. Sometimes it comes from repetition. A slow drip that wears you down until you’re hollow. My sleep disappeared. My emotions flatlined. At home, I was present in body but absent in every other way. I became irritable, detached, numb.
When I wasn’t working, I was drinking. Or I was scrolling pornography compulsively late at night, trying to block out what I’d been forced to look at by replacing it with something else. It didn’t work. It only deepened the shame.
I couldn’t tell anyone. Not really. In the culture I worked in, admitting you weren’t coping was the same as career suicide. So instead, I carried on. I smiled, I joked, I played the part of someone in control. Inside, I was falling apart.
That’s when suicidal thoughts crept in. At first it was a passing idea on the drive home: What if I just swerved into the wall? What if I didn’t wake up tomorrow?
Then it became a running dialogue in my head: You’re not good enough. You’re letting everyone down. They’d all be better off if you weren’t here.
I told myself I didn’t want to die. And I didn’t. Not exactly. I just didn’t want to keep living the way I was. I had always told others suicide was a permanent solution to a temporary problem, yet in my case it didn’t feel temporary.
Showing Vulnerability
I tried to do the right thing. Twice I put in formal requests to see a specialist. Both times I was refused because I was already under their radar for a self-declared alcohol dependency.
No one asked why I drank myself to oblivion. It wasn’t about enjoyment.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: I was drinking because of trauma, and the drinking was the reason I wasn’t allowed support. By the time I finally spoke to a specialist, I was already spiraling. PTSD had sunk its claws in.
The worst part of suicidal ideation isn’t the thought of dying. It’s the belief that your life no longer matters. That you are a burden. That everyone would be better off without you. That thought grew inside me until it colored everything I did.
What It Looked Like Day to Day
People sometimes imagine suicidal ideation as a single dramatic moment. For me, it was a hundred small ones.
It was lying awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, wishing I wouldn’t wake up.
It was sitting in my car outside the station, debating whether to walk in or just drive away and never come back.
It was drinking until I blacked out, secretly hoping not to face another day.
It was reading accounts of people who had died by suicide, not out of curiosity, but because it felt like preparation for something I couldn’t yet admit out loud.
From the outside, I was still functioning. Inside, I was bargaining with myself daily just to stay alive.
Collapse
In the end, I didn’t survive because of the system. I survived in spite of it. My career collapsed. My identity as an officer of the law collapsed with it. I lost the thing that had defined me for nearly two decades.
I ended up in rehab. No badge. No uniform. No authority. Just another broken man in a room full of broken people.
At first, I hated it. I felt ashamed, humiliated. I wasn’t like them, I told myself. Except I was. We all carried pain. We had all tried to outrun it. We had all thought about ending it.
Rehab forced me to strip away the armor. To say words I had never said out loud: I don’t want to die, I just don’t know how to live. Saying that was terrifying. But it was also the first time I felt a sliver of relief.
Learning That Silence Was the Enemy
Recovery wasn’t neat or quick. I carried shame into sobriety. I carried flashbacks. I carried the old suicidal whispers that would flare up when I felt overwhelmed. But I also carried something new: honesty.
Silence had almost killed me. Talking, even when it felt impossible, started to save me.
In rehab groups, I told parts of my story. In therapy, I admitted to the suicidal thoughts. And later, I started writing. At first just for myself. Then publicly. My memoirs, Four Letter Word and Unprescribed, became a way to take what had been buried in silence and bring it into the light. Every page I wrote was a small rebellion against the shame that had kept me quiet.
I learned that shame thrives in isolation. The more I spoke, the less power it had.
What Survival Looks Like Now
I won’t pretend that recovery tied everything up neatly. I still live with PTSD. I still get flashes of suicidal thoughts when I’m under pressure or when shame creeps back in. The difference is I don’t face them alone anymore.
Recovery gave me tools. Writing. Therapy. Community. Honesty. None of these erase the pain, but they help me carry it without collapsing under it.
I lost a career, but I found a voice. I discovered that my story, the parts I had been most ashamed of were the very things that connected me to others. When I speak about suicidal ideation, about trauma, about addiction, people lean in. Not because my story is unique, but because it isn’t.
Why I Tell This Story
I tell this story because silence kills. I tell it because I know what it’s like to believe your absence would make life easier for everyone around you. I know what it’s like to bargain with yourself every night about whether you’ll make it through tomorrow.
I also know what it’s like to come out the other side. To rebuild. To survive.
We lose too many people not because they are weak, but because they are forced to carry unbearable pain in silence.
If you’ve ever thought about suicide, I want you to hear this:
You are not broken.
You are not alone.
Your story matters.
Breaking the silence might feel like the hardest thing you ever do. But it might also be the thing that saves your life.
2024 Winners
1st Place: “The Ghost I Became” by Alec Williams
I was seventeen, sitting alone on the edge of a narrow, rusty train track stretched across an old stone bridge. Early morning mist curled down from the peak of the Appalachian mountains, damp and heavy as it clung to my skin, creeping through the worn fabric of my favorite Green Day shirt. Below, the North Fork Kentucky River winded like a dark ribbon, carrying fragments of childhood memories of my ancestors and myself as it flowed silently under my feet. Sharp air clung to me, layered with the scent of wet pine and the faint hum of waking birds – a chorus vivid and alive, yet oblivious to my presence. My thumb poked through the frayed hole in my sleeve’s cuff, tracing the worn metal rail; rough and biting against my skin, anchoring me to that moment, that place. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy, settling deeply in my chest and filling every hollow space within me. I had never imagined reaching adulthood. In an odd way, that certainty was a comfort, sparing me from the weight of an unknown future. But as time crept, I found myself hoping for a train to come, to sweep me away, carrying me beyond this life.
Growing up, I was always on the edge of something I couldn’t quite name. Watching others lead what I was taught to believe was a ‘normal’ life, I felt myself slipping further away. When I was fourteen, my mother left me at my distant father’s house and told me I’d be staying. The tracks suddenly felt wider, the gap between me and everyone else stretching even further. Everything about my father and his world felt foreign. I clung to her, dropping to my knees, begging her to take me with her. My final attempt to hold on was a note, folded into the familiar triangle pattern we used in school, which I slipped into her back pocket before she walked away. I watched from my father’s bedroom window as she drove away, her words lingering in the air like the sound of a door closing, leaving only silence behind. In that moment, I fully grasped the weight of abandonment. I felt truly alone, as though everyone around me could come and go without warning.
School offered no escape, and by high school, I had become a master of hiding every part of myself that didn’t fit neatly into societal expectations. Shortly before I dropped out, I found a small light in my first girlfriend. Like a cliché, we met on the back of the bus, both of us barely hanging on and searching for something we couldn’t seem to find. She would tell me about her dream of starting a life in California one day, somewhere far beyond the suffocating boundaries of our hometown. For the first time, I felt less alone, as though someone could see beyond the walls built around our life. We kept our relationship hidden from our families, knowing the hell it would bring if they found out. But an older man – someone who had inserted himself into our social circle by ‘dating’ a friend of ours – printed screenshots of our MySpace profiles and delivered them to her mother’s workplace, shattering the fragile safety we’d managed to build around ourselves. She had planned to stay with me that weekend, and part of me still wonders what his true intentions were, as though exposing us gave him a twisted sense of power.
Soon after, her parents stormed into my apartment, grabbed her, and dragged her out to their vehicle. I remember their shouting – violent words of disgust and disapproval that have since blurred in my memory, yet remain etched there all the same. By Monday, we learned they had moved her in with an aunt and transferred her to a new school, ripping her from her life as though she had committed a crime. We tried to stay in touch through whispered phone calls, but I couldn’t bear the thought that even speaking to me put her at risk. Watching her parents drive away with her, I felt more than just loss – I felt a sharp confirmation that the world wasn’t made for people like me, that any connection I found would be broken or taken from me. Each loss layered upon the last, building walls that felt unbreakable, as though I were meant to be hidden, unseen.
I felt the rough edges of the rock wall digging into my heels as they dangled over the side of the bridge. A small rock slipped from beneath me, cascading down to the river – five long seconds before the faint, distant plop echoed up from the water. The bridge was wide open, with no rails or barriers – just an endless drop to the river below, the kind of openness I craved in my own life but could never quite reach. Sharp, bitter notes of burnt rubber filled the air, likely drifting over from a nearby tire shop. My mother’s voice echoed faintly, a memory of her old warning to stay off the tracks – a warning she’d likely heard from her own parents growing up on the wrong side of them. But here I was, alone on the edge, carrying thoughts and demons no one else knew, praying for a train. I didn’t know the schedule. This wasn’t Amtrak territory; this was a coal town – these were freight trains. I hadn’t planned it down to the last detail; I just knew that if a train came barreling down, I wouldn’t try to outrun it… it hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Suspended between living and leaving, I felt the hollow space within me, drifting with nothing to anchor it. Beneath the numbness, anger simmered… a familiar undercurrent, tangled with every ‘why’ that had filled my life. My uncle’s ex-wife prodded at me as a child for asking ‘why’ so often. I vaguely remember her getting me a book about the ‘why’s’ of the world, but the why’s that kept me up at night weren’t why the sky was blue, or why the stars shine. She didn’t understand me, but everyone is dealt different ACEs. My ‘why’s’ were why was I so different, why I couldn’t love a girl, why nothing about me was ever ‘right’ for anyone. I wondered if people would regret the things they’d said about me, if the ones whobullied me would feel the weight of what they’d done, if the people who looked past me would finally see me when I was gone, if they’d ask why, too.
In the silence, faint thoughts flickered to life, images just out of reach. I thought of my old girlfriend and the way she’d dream about leaving this place, about building a life that felt like her own. I wondered how she was doing now. It wasn’t her I was longing for – I knew that. I was longing for the kind of future she’d made me believe could be possible. Was there a version of me out there, somewhere, who was happy? I imagined him: someone who carried my experiences, my pain, my grief, and my lessons. Someone who ‘got it,’ who felt real and unapologetically, authentically himself. For a moment, I saw him – his face, his voice, the things he might tell me. But I knew someone like that couldn’t exist – not in this world. The image faded as quickly as it appeared, slipping away like water through my fingers, but I held onto the thought, carrying this ghost with me. Moments drifted slowly, each one stretching longer than the last, and the tracks remained empty. Eventually, the cold seeped deeper into my skin, and the numbness gave way to exhaustion. I climbed up, more out of fatigue than intention, as though the numbness was loosening its grip, leaving a faint space for choice.
Walking home that night, I didn’t feel relieved. I didn’t feel hopeful, or like I’d had a breakthrough moment. There wasn’t some big realization pulling me forward – just one small thought I hadn’t had before: the lingering image of that person I’d imagined. He’d appeared as a fleeting vision on the bridge, yet something about him stayed with me. He seemed strong enough to carry the weight of being different and resilient enough to live not just through it, but in spite of it. He felt fatherly – a feeling unfamiliar to me. I didn’t really believe he could exist; in fact, I was fairly certain he couldn’t. But maybe, just for that night, he was enough. Enough to provide comfort. Enough to keep me here, just for now, holding on in the quiet, moving forward slowly, with no promises – just ‘enough’ to stay.
Looking back on that day on the bridge, I realize now it was only the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead me here. I didn’t know it then, but there were strengths within me waiting to be uncovered – character, courage, vulnerability, defiance, stubbornness, humor in the face of pain, and even a sense of justice I never lost, even when the world around me felt unkind. Those qualities carried me, one step at a time, through years of learning not just how to survive, but how to live. Today, I find grounding in the simple routines that once felt out of reach. I’m a father, watching my children grow and change, witnessing their laughter and the way they explore the world with curiosity. I find stability in our home, where my animals age beside me – a stability I never had growing up.
In these quiet, everyday moments, I find a sense of peace I didn’t know was possible. I’ve learned that ‘self-care’ is often misunderstood and overrated, far from the quick fixes people expect—it’s not a prescription, and it rarely looks the same for everyone. For me, it’s in small, everyday acts: drinking a cold glass of water, preparing a warm meal, the smell of fresh herbs and butter blooming in a hot cast iron pan, standing up for a stranger, bringing a plant back to life. Each act honors the life I’ve built and the journey it took to get here.
I went back to school as an adult and became the first in my family to earn a degree. I discovered that one of the best ways I serve myself is through serving others, and I have spent nearly ten years working in the mental health field. Today, I work at a suicide prevention and crisis hotline for young people, spending my days listening to stories that resonate with experiences from my own past. They’re finding their way, navigating a world that doesn’t always make room for them. I am here to listen, offering support as they discover their own direction. In their voices, I hear echoes of who I was, and each day, I show up for them as the person I needed back then – the person I once thought couldn’t exist. I’ve come to realize that I can be that person I needed when I was younger, for myself as much as for others.
Now, when I look in the mirror, I see him – the ghost I once imagined. He feels both unfamiliar, with my face etched by new lines, and deeply familiar, as a reflection of every step that brought me here. It’s taken time to understand, but I realize now he was never a ghost at all. He was me – the future I couldn’t see from where I stood back then. I’m becoming the person I needed all along, the person I always had the strength to become. In that process, I find hope – hope that the life I’m building, however unexpected, has room for all of me and room for those who need me. Each line on my face, each sign of aging, is a testament to the boy who braved those early days, the boy who carried me here to see this moment. For all the times I nearly let go, I’m here. I don’t plan too far ahead, but I think about the life I want to keep building – the life I never thought possible. I think of my children and the lives they’ll create, of my partner and their journey, of my mother and her path to recovery, and of the community I’ve built with others who share these lived experiences. They ground me, offering the strength I once sought alone. I belong here – not as a shadow or a ghost, but as someone who has claimed his place. I stand on the other side of everything I thought would break me, anchored in the life I’ve fought to build, and ready for what comes next.
2nd Place: “Unbroken: Rising from Trauma and Finding Purpose” by Caitlin Ruzycky
At 14, my world came crashing down when I was sexually abused by someone who had been woven into my life from the beginning. He wasn’t a stranger—he was a neighbor, a trusted family friend, present at every turn as I grew up. I looked up to him, never doubting his intentions, but when he betrayed that trust, it was as if a dark curtain dropped, cutting me off from the safety I’d always felt. I was left grappling with disbelief, anger, and a sense of sadness that gnawed at my core, struggling to understand how someone so close could inflict such harm. Overnight, the familiar streets I once felt safe in became a labyrinth of fear. His abuse shattered the comfort I’d found in my world, leaving me alert to the dangers that could be hidden in plain sight. The lasting impact was a painful lesson—that even those closest to us can harbor darkness, and trust can be broken instantly, leaving wounds that never fully fade.
Around this time, I began having suicidal ideation. I started having thoughts of just not wanting to be here anymore. It started passively—wishing I could disappear or not wake up, feeling like life was too much. But those thoughts quickly turned into self-harm. The pain I was carrying felt so overwhelming that the only way I knew how to handle it was to turn it inward. Hurting and cutting myself somehow felt like a release, a way to cope when everything else felt out of control.
Shame became a heavy burden I carried, settling deep within me and twisting my self- worth. It crept into my mind, whispering cruel lies that somehow, I was to blame for the abuse inflicted on me, isolating me from others. Navigating acceptance was just as challenging—reconciling the neighbor I’d once trusted with the person who violated me felt impossible. Sharing my experience of abuse came with an immense weight—the shame, fear, and vulnerability felt like barriers to finding my voice. But breaking the silence felt right; it was a truth I couldn’t keep hidden. I confided first in my sister, who listened without hesitation, believed me instantly, and stood beside me in seeking justice. Her immediate action to inform our mother brought me unbreakable support, with my family rallying around me as my truth came to light. Not everyone responded with the same belief and understanding—some struggled to comprehend the gravity of what I’d endured, adding layers of pain. That pain pulled me into a darkness so heavy it became almost impossible to breathe. My mind spiraled deeper into depression, feeding thoughts I couldn’t escape. I’d find myself hoping, nearly praying, that something beyond my control would happen—some accident or unseen force—to take me away from it all. It felt easier to wish for an end than to keep living in a world that felt so unlivable.
Seeking justice against my abuser threw me into the daunting and intricate world of the legal system. In my small town, where social ties run deep, navigating this path came with unique challenges. Reporting the abuse and working with law enforcement required resilience; still, the system, meant to protect survivors, sometimes tested that strength. The first judge assigned to my case lived on my street and shared connections with my abuser, which raised serious concerns about impartiality. The legal delays stretched over a year and a half, leaving me trapped in an endless loop of uncertainty and amplifying the emotional toll.
Testifying in court was one of the most grueling parts of this journey. Standing on the witness stand, I was forced to recount traumatic details while facing intense scrutiny from the defense. Their relentless questioning seemed designed to discredit me, making me feel exposed and frustrated. But I held firm, knowing the truth needed to be heard. Over time, the initial judge recused himself, offering hope for a fair trial, but the delay stretched close to two years, testing my patience. Despite it all, I felt empowered in moments, fueled by the understanding that my testimony could bring justice—not just for myself but for others who might find strength in my courage.
As the judge’s voice rang out with the long-awaited verdict of “Guilty,” a wave of emotions swept over me and my family. The weight I’d carried for so long began to lift, and a glimmer of hope appeared, signaling a new chapter. But just as I felt the relief of justice served, a bitter twist emerged: the defense team immediately appealed, arguing the punishment was “too severe for a man of his age.” Months later, an appellate judge ruled in their favor, releasing my abuser early with the justification that his age warranted leniency. The decision felt like a cruel slap, exposing deep flaws in the justice system that seemed to protect privilege over truth. It was a painful reminder that status in the system can undermine survivors’ victories.
Throughout my journey, one unwavering presence illuminated my path: my mother. More than just a parent, she became my advocate, confidante, and guiding light in my darkest hours. The moment I disclosed the abuse, she sprang into action, fiercely determined to fight for justice alongside me. She meticulously compiled a folder overflowing with newspaper articles, call notes from the district attorney and police, and her reflections—a tangible testament to her dedication. This folder represented her immense weight, ensuring my voice would be heard.
The bond between a mother and child transcends time and space, and my mother’s love and encouragement propelled me forward at every step. Her words, filled with unwavering conviction, instilled in me the belief that I was not alone. Even when the trials of the legal system threatened to break me, her love anchored me, grounding me in the knowledge that I was seen, heard, and believed.
Tragedy struck just two years after the trial when my mother died in a devastating car accident. Losing my mother in a tragic car accident was a rupture that shook the very foundation of my life. I can still see the accident scene etched in my mind as I witnessed the aftermath: the flash metal, the shattered glass, the car, and the way time seemed to freeze on the side of Highway 84. I stood there, a silent witness, my heart racing with horror and disbelief. After years of wrestling with the shadows of abuse, I was not ready for another trauma. At just 18, starting my first year of college, I was filled with dreams and aspirations, but the sudden void left by her absence swallowed those dreams whole. I felt like a ship lost at sea, tossed about by waves of grief I was unprepared to navigate.
In the aftermath of her death, my life felt like a prison. I couldn’t allow myself to grieve; the pain felt too overwhelming, too raw. Dropping out of college felt like my only option, a desperate attempt to escape a reality I couldn’t bear. This decision, however, ignited a firestorm in my already fractured family. My father, grappling with his fury and sorrow, could not comprehend my choice. In his anguish, he kicked me out of our home, and suddenly, I found myself adrift, homeless, with only my car and garbage bags filled with my belongings.
With each step away from what had been my sanctuary, I felt the weight of the world pressing down on me. The streets became my reality, and the car—my only refuge. I had to find a way to survive, to reclaim a sense of identity amidst the chaos. The memories of my mother lingered like a ghost, urging me to remember her strength and unconditional love. In the darkest moments, I clung to the hope that somehow, through the pain, I could emerge stronger, carrying her spirit with me as I sought to build a new life from the remnants of my shattered past. But I quickly learned that escape wouldn’t come so easily. This became my second attempt to end my life because I couldn’t picture a world that had a place for me. What started as self-harm just a couple of years before had unraveled into something much darker, leaving behind deep wounds. The scars—the ones you can see and the ones you can’t—are still with me.
During this time, I crossed paths with another abuser, meeting him at my most vulnerable—grief-stricken, homeless, and overwhelmed by confusion. I would enter into a decade-long domestic violence relationship with him. He preyed on that fragility, quickly recognizing an easy target in my weakened state. He posed as the fun, caring older man who seemed to have all the answers, often pouring drinks for me and convincing me that he was the support I needed. Looking back, I realized I needed someone to tell me it would all be okay. Instead, he took advantage of my pain, using it to weave himself deeper into my life.
His manipulation was cruelly precise. Knowing about the strained relationship I had with my father, he used it as a wedge to isolate me further. He chipped away at that bond, systematically making himself the center of my world—a twisted, calculated move meant to break down my connections to any support network. This tactic is all too familiar in the pattern of abuse, leaving victims feeling trapped in a cycle that’s difficult to break.
In my darkest days, hope seemed a distant illusion until an unexpected opportunity reshaped my life. A family took a chance on me, offering me a nannying job, a sense of belonging, and genuine care. They embraced me as their own, filling a gap of loss and turmoil. The mother, in particular, understood my struggles and saw a potential in me that I couldn’t yet recognize. She believed in a future beyond my pain and encouraged me to pursue it.
At 24, inspired and determined, I re-enrolled in college, knowing now what I wanted: to support others enduring the same unimaginable pain I had faced. Psychology became my chosen path. Balancing full-time nannying with online classes was grueling, yet the purpose driving me kept the fire alive. Through late nights and relentless dedication, I was building resilience and equipping myself with the tools to become an advocate for survivors like myself. The family’s support was my financial and emotional lifeline; they held my hand through the journey, believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.
As my independence grew, so did my abuser’s desperation to keep me under control. I saved every penny, eventually securing a small studio apartment, a victory hard-won and precious. But this newfound freedom made my partner feel threatened, sparking more violent and controlling behavior. The abuse intensified—physical attacks, forced intimacy, and threats involving people connected to him, some in a notorious motorcycle club. Whether the danger was real or manufactured, the fear kept me from leaving, locking me in a cycle of dread and survival. But even through this, I found a glimmer of strength, a realization that I wanted and deserved a life free from fear.
Determined to escape, I began crafting a plan. My sister, who had been urging me to move to Massachusetts, became my anchor in this vision of freedom. I gathered essentials for a quick departure—my passport, social security card, birth certificate, cash, a change of clothes, and photos of my mom. This “go bag” in my car’s trunk became my symbol of hope, a reminder that with each small step, I was inching closer to a life where I could finally reclaim my peace.
One afternoon in 2017, after yet another argument—a blur of anger like so many before it—I hit a breaking point. This time was different. I told him I was leaving for good, and his rage hit a terrifying peak as he threatened to kill me and my family if I dared walk away. For the first time, he stormed out mid-fight, leaving me in the silence of that tiny apartment, utterly shattered. A sense of despair so deep overtook me, and in a haze, I tried to end it by hanging myself from my apartment loft. When I woke up, he was beside me. He didn’t say much, only that he loved me, then left. I knew then that it was truly over; he had seen the toll and life draining from me. I called my sister, packed what I could, and within 24 hours, I was gone from New York, free of him and the shadows of those years.
A year later, in 2018, I completed my bachelor’s degree in psychology, grounding myself in a purpose that had been forming: to help others find their way out of darkness. I began working at Call2Talk and Crisis Text Line, guiding and supervising crisis counselors dedicated to mental health and suicide prevention. My pain became a bridge to connect with those in need, a source of empathy and strength as I found my footing in a career that helped others navigate their struggles.
In 2020, I took another significant step by enrolling in the master’s program at Simmons University, diving deeper into social work and committing fully to a life supporting other survivors. I completed a pivotal internship with a domestic violence agency and earned my LCSW, assisting clients with restraining orders, providing courtroom advocacy, and facilitating individual therapy sessions. This work allowed me to stand beside those facing the same battles I’d fought, offering support as they reclaimed their lives.
Today, as a clinician specializing in crisis intervention, particularly in suicide prevention and domestic violence, I share a message of resilience: healing is possible. The journey is winding and certainly not linear, with difficult days woven in, but support has been my anchor— through therapy, my husband’s love, my sister’s strength, and friends who have become family. Slowly, I’m rebuilding a relationship with my father, piecing together what was once broken. I say, with conviction, to those who’ve walked a similar path that it gets better.
3rd Place: “Sunrise and Sunflowers” by Bethany Lemons
Sometimes my life feels so impossible and surreal, like all the events in my life could not have possibly occurred together in the same lifetime. When life feels this way, I imagine myself in a large conference room, with versions of me at different stages of my life meeting together. “You won’t believe what happens next,” an older me will say to an 8-year-old me, grieving my own father’s death by suicide. “One day, you will be the one contemplating suicide.” “Then one day, after that, you’ll go to your state’s capital city to receive an award for your work in suicide prevention in your community.”
Other times, I have these strange moments of what feels like extreme clarity where the way my life is unfolding doesn’t only seem “not impossible,” but feels inevitable. For a moment all of my cynicism is melted away and replaced with the whimsy of a divine predestination I have never even believed in. In these moments, nothing is absurd or surreal or impossible, because everything in my life has happened in the only way it possibly could. Usually, though, I’m just here, existing as whoever I am in this moment.
People act like suicide is contagious. I was just an 8-year-old girl grieving my father, but my friends were no longer allowed to talk to me. To my 8 year old mind, the lesson here was, “if I talk about suicide, people won’t like me.” Looking back, it’s no wonder that I thought all of my anxiety and depression accumulating over the years was mine to bear alone.
There can be something very frustrating about having your dreams realized. I wanted to escape my small town, move to a big city, and work for the government. This is exactly the life that I created. When I was 23, I had what was supposed to be my dream life. I couldn’t even enjoy it. I would get home from work at 6:00 pm and immediately go to bed without eating or showering, praying that my coworkers wouldn’t notice when I did this day after day for weeks on end. They didn’t, of course. I have something of a curse, though others have told me they envy it: I always look like I have it together. I’m one of those people for whom ceasing to smile feels unnatural. There is a dance in my step even at my worst. People find even my chaos charming and my eccentricities fascinating. I’ve always loved hearing people refer to me as a happy person.
Often, the perception others have of me bears more weight in my mind than the reality I face within. I am not proud of this. My pride nearly killed me. As much as I would like to twist the narrative here and act like I have always been an advocate for suicide awareness, I think doing so would be harmful. We have to be honest because our experiences are not unique. I’m not the only one who has experienced fear that asking for help would hurt more than death. I’m not the only person who cares about how people see me. I was suicidal, but it felt like suicide was a vague concept that only existed in my mind. Asking for help would make it real. I grew up with the stigma of my father’s suicide looming over me, and there was no way in hell that I was going back to living that way. I could get through this. Other people did it, and I could, too. I could continue to manage this alone.
At this point, I could never imagine myself living to see the next day. I didn’t want to, either, because I knew that when tomorrow came it would be the same as today, and the day after would be the same as today, as would the next, ad infinitum. The happy memories I had with my family or friends were just that– memories, and I would never be able to live in them again. The future I saw for myself was bleak. I couldn’t keep living like this, but my own internalized stigma made it so that I couldn’t ask for help, either. Daydreams of suicide became increasingly tangible, turning into more concrete plans– no matter how much I tried to stop them.
A night came that I only remember in pieces. I called my mom. I couldn’t even speak because I was crying so hard. I didn’t have to speak, my mom knew what my tears were. It was the middle of the night, and she got in her car to drive across the state to me. She begged me to get help, and the guilt was overwhelming. I kept thinking to myself, how did I ever let it come to this. I’m just. Like. My. Dad.
My loved ones were crying and begging me to stay alive, and I barely felt attached to the earth at all. I started to feel like my longing to keep my friends and family safe was doing just the opposite: I was putting them through this same pain all over again. That was the realization I needed. Life felt so foggy, so nothing else felt clear and nothing else mattered. If I didn’t go into inpatient tonight, then I would die. My mom’s broken heart seemed to be visible in her eyes. I knew I needed to stay alive, that nothing else mattered. I would figure out the rest later.
I spent a little over a week in a psychiatric hospital, and though this was just the start of my journey, it was by far the best choice that I have ever made in my life. I remember waking up early in the morning after my first night in inpatient and seeing the sunrise. The sunrise was beautiful. I thought to myself, I almost wasn’t here for this. My best friend came to visit me. She reminded me that winter would soon be over, and we could go dance in sunflower fields forever. I almost wasn’t here for this.
Things were calm for a while. I activated my short-term disability, and for the first time in my life, I permitted myself to rest. I prioritized finding contentment in myself and escaping my performative happiness. Meaning returned slowly, and not in the ways that I expected. Meaning came through mindfulness, through trying to see each and every moment as a lifetime in its own right. Meaning came through sunrises and sunflowers that I had once neglected, knowing that had I chosen differently, I wouldn’t be here to see them. Most of all, meaning came through the realization that I was not alone in my experience.
People always tell me that asking for help was strong. They say they envy my bravery. This breaks my heart. I strive for honesty, because I no longer want people to see me as just an inherently happy person. I don’t want people to see me as brave, because bravery feels intangible to a soul in crisis. I am just me. I am here. I asked for help, and I want everyone else to know that they can do the same, too. The worries they feel about asking for help aren’t insignificant because stigma in our society is real, but it’s a journey worth taking, even if just for the sunrises and the sunflowers. Asking for help isn’t just for the brave and broken. I continue to ask for help constantly.
I know everyone’s story will be different, but I hope that someone finds hope in hearing how asking for help saved my life, it didn’t ruin it. I’ve always been bothered by stories that give a definitive, enlightened ending to a story that seems like it’s still being told, so I am not going to do that. I am young and my story is not over. There are no easy fixes, and five years later I am still fighting for my mental health. My life is not a completed journey that I look at in hindsight. I still struggle. Individual, isolated days can still feel impossible, but there is no doubt that on average, I am in a better place in life than I was five years ago. Recovery isn’t linear, every day is different, but the overall arc of my life now bends toward healing. My life now has healing, meaning, sunrises, and sunflowers. And you know? That’s enough. Even if sunrises and sunflowers were the only beauty in my life, that would be enough to live for. During the nights, hold on, because come morning I get to feel warmth on my face from a giant, nearby star. I get to watch color bloom from the ground after cold winters. What more could I ever ask for?