“You have to stay alive to make it to the wedding.”
I kept repeating this to myself over and over throughout the month of May. It had been a hard year, my first year in a new city. I moved not knowing anyone, working remotely—it was a good move, but it had been a lonely year. And May had been an exceptionally hard month. The depression came in full force, suicidal thoughts moved from the back of my mind to the front, and my social anxiety was the most intense it had been since I was a teenager.
I was no stranger to these thoughts and feelings; I knew I had felt worse than this before and survived. But I was struggling. I felt myself isolating, and toward the end of the month, the anxiety was so loud and the depression so deep, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house.
But, one of my best friends back home was getting married. His bachelor party was at the end of the month, with the wedding the following weekend. Friends from different countries were coming in for it, and I had hope that between seeing them and the rest of my friends back home, it would give me a renewed sense of joy and calm.
So, I kept telling myself that I just had to make it to the wedding. I could do whatever after that, but I had to stay long enough to show up for my friend and give myself the chance to feel something else. With prayers from friends and FaceTimes with my best friend in Switzerland, who I would soon see again, I did make it to the bachelor party and wedding. And, as I suspected, it was what I needed. But maybe even more so than I realized.
I would spend the weekend with two of my best friends and a group of people I was friendly with, but didn’t know well. I wasn’t anxious, though. Being back with friends, with people who knew me and felt safe, I wasn’t worried. While there may have been slight anxieties about the people I didn’t really know, they were far outweighed by the knowledge I’d be back among familiar faces.
It was a beautiful weekend. Acquaintances became friends, relationships strengthened, and I felt like I belonged. I felt accepted, seen, welcomed—and I didn’t have to be anyone other than myself.
Not that I had been trying to be someone I wasn’t the past year, but it’s hard to make friends and build community in a new city, especially being more introverted and anxious. I’m so grateful for the church community I found and the incredible women I met with weekly. But there was still a glaring part of me that felt like I wasn’t enough—years of poor self-esteem and intense self-criticism had built up. It had nothing to do with the people; they were all so kind, but my brain was so loud in every social interaction, and I had reached what felt like my breaking point.
I always felt like I was doing or saying the wrong thing, the most critical and hateful thoughts yelling so loudly in my head. And I was too tired to fight them anymore, worn out from the war inside. If I hated and rejected myself enough, I wouldn’t have to face the inevitable rejection from anyone else.
Part of me knew I had value and worth, but the part of me that said I would never be enough and that there was nothing about me worth loving or being friends with was louder.
So, to be in a group of people and not feel like I had to try or strive for something more, a weight was lifted. I treasured those moments, even the quiet times when everyone was just sitting together. I knew they would be memories I’d hold onto in the future, when I needed a reminder that there were still places I belonged.
One of the nights that weekend, we sat around the fire. One person at a time, we all went around and said something we loved about them, and at the end, they had to say something they loved about themself. I cried so much listening to everyone share love with each other. It was beautiful. I was lucky to be among people with such big hearts.
But even as we were putting the fire out and people were getting ready to play games or go to bed, I couldn’t stop crying. I was so overwhelmed with gratitude. I couldn’t begin to express how it felt to be all together, and how relieving it was to not have to try, to feel like I belonged just as I was.
I went into my room in the basement, trying to pull myself together, but the tears kept coming. I knew eventually I’d calm down and planned to just go to sleep. But my friend, who was getting married, came down to the room. He sat on the bed as I cried, and it meant everything to me to have him there. It was his party, I didn’t want to ruin it or make it about me or be a burden—worries that normally would have stopped me. And while those thoughts may have been there, I knew I didn’t have to spiral with them. He had seen me through far worse, talked me off the ledge countless times, and sat with me through tears countless more.
Through tears, I told him how grateful I was and how happy I felt to have everyone together, to all be in the same place. At one point, he said, “You’ve had a lot of obstacles this year.” I dismissed it, saying it wasn’t even that, it was just nice to be around people without having to try so hard. He said, “No, you have.” And I cried more.
I told him that it’s been so loud in my head lately that the thoughts and self-hatred were constantly yelling. I always felt like I had to try harder or be more. And I told him, “For the first time in so long, it’s been quiet this weekend.” Shaking, with tears streaming down my face, I whispered, “It’s never quiet.”
He sat next to me and put his arm around me. I hadn’t felt so safe and seen in so long. It’s a moment I’ll hold close to me and call back to when I’m feeling alone. He told me that he hoped this showed me and helped me see that I am lovable—just as I am. I know he’s right, even if I can’t always feel it.
The rest of the weekend, the week in between, getting to catch up with long-time friends, and the wedding rejuvenated my soul. I never felt like I had to be anything other than myself with people who had known me for so long and seen me through so much.
I know the only way to form similar connections is by allowing people to see me as I am, and not jumping to conclusions that they won’t like me or slipping into the lies that there isn’t even anything about me worth liking. I know that’s not true.
And in the moments when I can’t stop the spirals, when the voices get too loud and I just want to quiet them by leaving, I’ll remember moments from that week and weekend. I’ll remember that it’s not always this hard or loud, that there are spaces where it’s easier. I’ll remember that the voices can ebb. And as I rest in that truth, I’ll choose to stay.
September is Suicide Prevention Month. Every 40 seconds, we lose someone to suicide. Your voice can help someone stay. Whether you’ve struggled with thoughts of suicide, have lost someone, or simply care—TWLOHA is inviting you to take actions that can provide hope for someone facing their darkest day.
This year’s Suicide Prevention Campaign is in full swing, and there are so many ways you can take action from wherever you are. Your support can change so much. Our goal, with your invaluable help, is to raise $250,000 by September 30th so that we are able to fund 2,800 hours of therapy for people who can’t otherwise afford care. We’ll also be able to support 26,000 searches through our FIND HELP Tool—connecting individuals to local, affordable mental health services, and we’ll be able to make space for 38 weeks of digital peer support, giving people a space to feel seen, heard, and not alone.
To learn more, start a fundraiser, or donate what you can, we invite you to visit twloha.com/suicideprevention.
For those struggling, you’re not in this alone. There are people who can and want to help. For free mental health resources, please go to twloha.com/stay. If you need immediate help, you can call 988 or text TWLOHA to 741741.