Suicide Prevention Month: Why It’s Personal for Me

The start of September always leaves a pit in my stomach. For a lot of people, it’s the beginning of fall, football season, or school routines. For me, it’s a month that feels like both a weight and a responsibility. It comes with guilt.

I sometimes wonder if the start of this new month triggers something in me. Like my body subconsciously knows it’s preparing for a season of guilt and grief. The past week has been rough, which is why I hesitated to even write this post. The truth is, I still struggle, and sometimes the struggle is worse than others. Part of me questions my credibility to write about suicide prevention when I’m still in the thick of it. But maybe that’s exactly why I need to share. Because prevention, healing, and hope don’t come from a perfectly tied-up recovery story. They come from honesty, from saying “me too,” and from refusing to stay silent.

Honestly, survivor’s guilt is something that doesn’t get talked about enough. People usually think of it in the context of surviving an accident or tragedy, but it’s just as real for those of us who have survived suicide attempts. It’s a strange kind of heaviness, feeling grateful to still be here while also questioning why you get to live when others didn’t.

I think about the many young lives taken by suicide in the small rural community I grew up in. I think about classmates, friends, and peers who never got the chance to see their twenties, never got to graduate, find their dream job, get married, or discover who they were meant to become. I think about how much they had to give this world, and it makes me sick that they didn’t get that chance.

When I let myself really sit with those thoughts, I end up asking a question I’ll never have the answer to: Why me?

Why did I survive? Why do my parents still get to celebrate birthdays with me when so many parents out there are grieving? Why do I get to celebrate milestones, college graduations, birthdays, big and small wins, when someone else struggling with the same darkness I did isn’t here anymore? Why do I get another tomorrow when they didn’t?

I question God a lot about that. I’ve been told not to, but I do. I wonder what His plan is, and why my story kept going when theirs stopped. It’s a question that brings tears to my eyes every single time, because I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand it in this lifetime.

The only peace I get from those thoughts is knowing that they’re no longer suffering. They were taken into God’s loving arms, where they never have to feel that kind of pain again. That truth doesn’t erase the grief, but it gives me comfort. It reminds me that even when I can’t make sense of things here, there is a greater mercy at work, a mercy that held them close when this world couldn’t.

And yet, I’m still here.

I don’t take that lightly.

But I’d be lying if I said suicidal thoughts don’t still creep into my head. I wish I could be some poster child for someone who was completely healed and “recovered” from suicidal thoughts. But the truth is, I still struggle.

To some people, it’s hard to understand why these thoughts still occur. I also wish understood it. From the outside, I’m doing everything “right.” I take my medications. I go to therapy. I try to exercise, eat healthy, and care for myself. And yet, there are still nights when the thoughts are too loud, when the darkness feels too heavy, and I have to call 988 just to make it through.

I used to see that as a failure. Now, I see it as resilience. Because every single time I’ve picked up the phone, every time I’ve taken my meds even when I didn’t want to, every time I’ve dragged myself out for a run or chosen to show up to therapy, I’ve chosen life. Even in the smallest, hardest, most exhausted ways, I’ve chosen to keep going. And that matters.

Healing isn’t a straight line. It doesn’t look like a before-and-after photo. It’s messy. It’s work. It’s moments of progress followed by days that feel like setbacks. But what I’ve learned is that struggling doesn’t erase healing. Both can exist at the same time.

That’s why I can say with certainty: if you are reading this and you are in that place, you are not broken. You are not dramatic. You are not a burden. You are a human being in pain, and pain deserves compassion, not shame.

Nothing I say will ever change what has already happened. Nothing will bring back the lives lost too soon. But what I can do is make a promise: to spend every minute of the rest of my life advocating for those who are no longer with us, and for those who are struggling silently the way I once did.

To anyone reading this who feels the way I once did (and sometimes still do): Please hold on. Please reach out. The world is absolutely better with you in it, even if your mind is telling you otherwise. I promise there is more love, more laughter, more healing, and more purpose ahead of you than you could ever imagine.

To the families and friends of those we’ve lost: I see you. I carry your heartbreak with me every day. I know nothing I can write will take away the hole in your heart, but I need you to know that your loved one mattered. Their story matters. Their life mattered, and they still do.

For me, Suicide Prevention Month is about more than awareness. It’s about action. It’s about having hard conversations, checking in on friends, showing up, and reminding each other that nobody has to fight their battles alone. Sometimes prevention looks like a late-night phone call, a friend checking in, a counselor’s office, or even a post like this, reminding you that you’re not alone, even if it feels like you are.

If you’re struggling, please call or text 988. It’s free, confidential, and available 24/7. Reaching out doesn’t make you weak; it makes you brave. You deserve help. You deserve healing. You deserve a tomorrow.

So yes, September will always carry both grief and gratitude for me.

Grief for the lives we’ve lost. Grateful that I am still here.

And with that comes a responsibility to keep going, to keep speaking up, and to keep advocating. Not just for myself, but for the ones who can’t.