Trigger Warning: Suicidal Thoughts/Attempt
I hear the familiar sounds drifting down from upstairs—first the soft creak of a door, then the sound of footsteps, followed by a hesitant voice calling down to me. “Mom?”
For a moment, I consider ignoring it. It’s late, and he should be nestled in bed, fast asleep. I should be too, but I succumbed to the guilty pleasure of enjoying the couch all to myself.
“Mom?” he calls again, a bit louder this time.
I can just picture him leaning over the banister, and irritation flares up inside me. My stomach churns with mixed emotions—anger that he’s still awake, fear that he might wake his sisters, and a creeping worry that wraps around me in the dark, suggesting that something might be wrong.
I reluctantly unwrap my hands from my mug of tea and try to keep my voice steady. “What?”
As soon as the word slips from my lips, I hear him retreating. I can visualize him straightening up from the banister, pulling the door almost shut behind him. “Nothing,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure you were there.”
“I’m here,” I reply, but I’m really saying it to myself more than to him, as he’s already disappeared.
I’m here.
Those two words often become a tiny prayer I whisper to myself—a sort of mantra. It’s a combination of gratitude and awe, a love letter to the universe, God, and myself, penned when I was just 18, after I had attempted to take my own life.
Yes, that’s a part of my story that I haven’t shared yet—the hidden truth that lingers in the shadows, especially when I reflect on my life today. How could I have jeopardized this? What hubris made me believe I knew better than God? I let my overwhelming emotions convince me to abandon the gifts yet to come, including that boy on the banister and the other three blessings that followed, along with the smaller joys like the peace I discovered on the couch tonight.
But that’s not the whole truth anymore. It’s the perspective of a married woman in her late 30s, a mother of four who found help and did the necessary work. I’ve discovered a sense of peace in my family, friends, yoga, marriage, and the words I write. I can now see the distance between me and that suicide attempt as a reflection of what happens when nighttime worries invade daytime thoughts.
Back then, I believed my pain was unique, that no one could understand the depths of my despair. I recognize now that those beliefs are the lies darkness tells us. I fought against the pain with everything I had—through food, exercise, alcohol, distractions, isolation, relationships, and eventually, the ultimate escape.
But with time and distance, clarity emerged: pain and joy coexist. They are two sides of the same coin—the labor before the birth, the night before dawn, the storm that nourishes the ground before flowers bloom. I tried to shut out the pain, wrapping myself in a bubble as though that could protect me, but it almost cost me my life.
The key lesson from that experience is simple: you can’t flee from pain and still truly live. Pain is a crucial part of the journey, just as joy is. They’re not opposites but rather intertwined aspects of the same existence.
Life evolves swiftly, doesn’t it? That beautiful boy upstairs was just a dream when I stood in our cluttered first apartment 13 years ago, telling my partner, Jake, that I was ready to start a family. Now, he’s 12 and growing more independent. His sisters and younger brother are also growing fast. Each night, I lean in to tuck them in, brushing their hair back and whispering, “I’m here,” as if to express my gratitude.
I truly am thankful—for the moments I haven’t missed, for the grace that followed my failures, and for how my joy has expanded every year, making room for new experiences, including the painful ones. Yes, even the pain. Life is a beautiful journey, and the price we pay for that beauty is worth it.
I’d willingly pay it a hundred times over for the simple joys—a stunning sunrise, a warm mug of tea, a heart-pounding run, a hug from an old friend, or the smile of a stranger in a busy room. Those moments, when life calls out to me from the banister, allow me to express the most precious prayer of gratitude:
I’m here.
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Summary
This reflection explores the intertwining of pain and joy in life, revealing how overcoming darkness can lead to gratitude for the present. It emphasizes the importance of acknowledging both emotions as integral parts of the human experience, ultimately affirming that life’s beauty is worth the struggles we face.
Keyphrase: Hope Beyond Depression
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