What Does It Mean to Be Brave?
Some days, brave means choosing to stay. Even though I’m afraid. Even though I’m hurting.
Topic: suicide prevention
I’m Just Tired: When I Discounted Depression
I’m not depressed, I’m just tired. Preston isn’t coming back, I know this now. I’ve accepted this, and there’s no basis for any depression to occur within me. Everything is as okay as it will be, and we all just have to keep going. I’m not depressed.
To Hope Is to Fight
My name is Michelle and I have Major Depressive Disorder. It’s severe and it’s recurrent. But I am not my depression, and my depression is not me. MDD is a part of my story, but it isn’t my identity.
Being Christian and Living With a Mental Illness
I’m writing about this because the stigma surrounding mental illness, especially in Christian communities, keeps people locked in prisons of shame, refusing to admit that they need help.
Illogical Truth
I want you to understand this: If you are in the pits of depression, if you are suicidal, if any of the above spoke to you, depression is lying.
To the Girl Who Wrote My Suicide Note
This letter is a reminder to the girl who wrote my suicide note. It is a reminder to myself: I am worth it, even when I don’t believe it. I am worth it.
What I Do Know
By remaining seated, I decided my life was worth holding onto. I was choosing to believe I mattered enough to do the work that had to follow...
A Safety Plan for When Life Gets Rough
We need to learn how to create elbow and knee pads for our mental health.
Instead of Killing Myself, I Called a Suicide Hotline
You call and wait to be connected, and after that minute or so wait, you speak to an elder Black woman, elder because you can hear the age and timbre of her experienced voice, and hear her breath while you cry and sob and weep in public...
A Veteran’s Truth About PTSD
It was devastating, in a single moment I felt that I had lost everything. Never in a million years would I have thought that I’d suffer from such a diagnosis.
Carrying My Sister’s Story
I want to challenge the narrative surrounding these struggles. That’s what my sister would want me to do. That’s what I want to do. My sister wasn’t weak. My friends aren’t weak. I am not weak.
The Pain Is the Price of Admission
I will pay it a hundred times over, for the simple pleasure of a beautiful sunrise or a mug of tea heavy in my hands or another mile run or a hug from a longtime friend or the smile of a stranger across a crowded room.
