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.
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?