September: Suicide Prevention
September 24, 2025
September is suicide prevention month. A majority of my social media feeds contain words and visuals that raise awareness, provide encouragement and resources, state the horrifying statistics, and beg those struggling to hang on a little longer. This month makes my own story feel heavier. The grief of missing my uncle, whom we lost to suicide, feels heavier. The struggles of those close to me, and far from me, feel heavier.
My past and my own battle with depression and suicidality feels like a daunting weight. It’s a heaviness in my chest as I’m reminded of the pain and the horror. I think there will always be a part of me, in the back of my mind, that fears ever returning to that place of struggle. But here I am, alive and breathing. And still struggling. Being suicidal and saying no to suicide is courageous. It’s being afraid and hurting beyond what feels repairable, but standing your ground against the enemy. I can rejoice in all the ways the Lord has restored the darkest parts of my life, and still have dark days.
There’s so much I want to say. So much I want to say to those who are hurting, to those who have never felt this kind of hurt before, to those trying to support someone who is hurting, to those who feel like there’s nothing left for them to do. But at times, when I think of what I want to say, my mind races, the words twirl and tumble in my brain, and yet I still feel speechless. The ache in my heart is too great for words to bear. I can spit out the psychology terminology, the therapeutic phrases, the one-liner encouragements. It just doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
Because it’s not. In my own battle, there was never a word that felt like enough. My heart intends to tell the whole world of His goodness and His glory. My heart intends to speak of how desperately God wants to heal those who are at the end of themselves. My heart intends to shout of the light on the other side. And yet I still feel speechless. I wrestle with what to say. I wrestle with the question of “why would God allow this to happen,” and all the questions that spiral afterwards. I wrestle with the weight of such a dark reality.
What saved my life, and continues to save my life, was the tangible presence of God, His grace and mercy, His love that took the cross and endured the worst corporal punishment known to man, so that I could walk free. God’s miracle-working power in my life is not something I can explain, nor is it something words can truly ever capture. When it comes to suicide, the only “word” that will ever be enough, is this: Jesus.
A few days after the one-year anniversary of my uncle Mack’s death, I blogged these words:
There are so many unanswered questions. They’ll be the first I ask when I’m face to face with Jesus. For now, I trust His sovereignty, faithfulness, and goodness to each of His children… and to Mack… even though I don’t see it fully right now.
I’m thankful God’s character isn’t dependent on what happens in this fallen world. I’m thankful that the brutality and the worst of pains isn’t the end for us— that Mack is in the arms of Jesus where suffering is no more.
As I cried and grieved the “why” this week, begging God for some sort of answer that made sense, I was reminded of this: God didn’t willingly let this happen. Mack’s death isn’t what He wanted or intended. And that’s why He sent Jesus… to walk with us and grieve with us… then to take on the cross, so that one day there would be no pain… so that one day there would be no suicide, no grief, no sobbing on the floor asking Him “why” over and over again.
It’s been a little over two years of living life without Mack. My words from a year ago still feel true. I wrestle and I cry, I grieve and I’m enraged. The only hope I have is Jesus. I don’t have all the answers. I can’t see the picture fully yet. But as Jesus sits at the right hand of the Father, He can see the full picture. He can see that death has been completely and fully defeated. He can see that, though the battle rages on, the war has been won by His blood. When my mind, my heart, and my body are thrown into chaos, confusion, and immense grief at the dark reality of a very broken world, Jesus is who I cling to. Having all of the answers won’t bring Mack back. Having all of the answers won’t end suicide and it won’t cure depression. But resting in the Lord’s love is enough. He has never let me down, living according to His word has never led me astray. And when I’m brokenhearted and have no words to say, He meets me there.
“This I declare about the LORD: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I trust him.” Psalm 91:2
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33
“We can't prevent suicide if we're too afraid to say the word. Silence doesn't save lives, conversation does. Saying suicide doesn't plant the idea, it creates safety. Avoiding the word only feeds shame, but naming it opens the door for healing. The more we speak it out loud, the more we remind people they are not alone in the fight to stay.” (@fightthroughmentalhealth on Instagram)
“Choosing to stay when everything in your mind and body is telling you not to is a strength l pray you never have to measure, but if you know this battle, I want you to remember you are not alone. I see how tired you are, and I know how heavy it feels, but your life is still worth living. There are people, places, and moments waiting to love you that you haven't even met yet. The simple fact that you exist is proof that you are needed. You are enough. Please stay.” (@fightthroughmentalhealth on Instagram)
Writing this post from a place of depression in my own life feels disqualifying. I know I’m not alone in that feeling. But here’s a reminder I received this week: “Your lived experience with mental health struggles doesn’t make you more sensitive (ie. weak, incapable of handling hardship). It makes you more aware, and your awareness is more than just valuable in loving others well.”
So as I am reminded that struggling does not make me weak, but makes me stronger, I continue to write with vulnerability; praying that someone will be encouraged along the way.
September Awareness— my raw thoughts in a poem
I used to describe
My debilitating anxiety
As feeling trapped in a room
With no doors
No windows
And it is filling with water
Heavy and crushing in on every part of your body
Helpless to keep your head above it.
Treading water with everything in you.
But I would describe
My depression
As feeling trapped in a room
With no doors
No windows
And it is filling with water
Heavy and crushing in on every part of your body
Except this time
The water can’t rise fast enough
The desire for it to be over
It’s all consuming
There’s nothing in you
To tread the water.
The water can’t rise fast enough.
A pain so deep
So real
So terrifying
So isolating
So haunting.
Heart breaking and gut wrenching
Exhausting
It’s exhausting.
You think,
You believe
There’s only one way out
A horrifying but so comforting way out.
Blinded to the light on the other side.
Though it’s there
That light
It’s there.
Saved by grace
From that never ending pit
Of despair and death
Healed and restored
Brokenness made new
A depression that
Made more tangible
The truth that Jesus hung on the cross
To save me from that
That…
A darkness
A weight
A fear
A horror
A pain
That no human word
Can truly explain.
To my First Love,
When there are no words to say, be near. We need You. We trust You. We know You see the bigger picture. Wrap Your arms around those who are battling suicide. Be their comfort and their fortress. We know You have more in store for them. Give them the strength to see another day, one breath at a time.
Amen