suicide stigma

Week 51

Fifty one.

My mom turned fifty one 21 days before she killed herself…. How sick, to murder oneself. Ugh. It’s so… abrasive.

Fifty one — we called it “Fifty Fun.” I coined the term, but Mom thought Scott made it up. Scott & I laughed about that at the time. She just adored Scott; he reminded him a lot of herself, with his optimism and lighthearted demeanor. Now these similarities scare me about Scott sometimes… Isn’t that sad?

“She was supposed to be ‘fifty fun’ not ‘ fifty done,’”I’ve often repeated to myself this year.

Grief rips apart one’s sense of time and space. It’s been almost a year since my mom died, but it feels like it’s been a decade. Others think the year went by fast. It’s seemed like an eternity. Pieces of me feel like I never had a Mom — I feel so far from her, it’s like she was part of someone else’s life. It couldn’t possibly been my life.

The sun and the moon and the tides testify to time’s reality, but it’s simultaneously a construct. A way to measure our days, with seasons to mark the harvests and the plentiful and the droughts.

Time moves quickly when we enjoy our lives, slowly when we’re bored, and halts when we’re suffering.

Suffering refines and illuminates what matters, while healing ensures one concludes with the right perspective.

It seems as though nothing matters when one’s suffering. For example — from my skewed and insecure perspective — nothing I’ve done matters.

It didn’t matter that I loved Patrick.

It didn’t matter that I loved my Momma.

It doesn’t matter that I love my grandparents.

It doesn’t matter that I loved my former pastors.

My kindness and my love, in the end, didn’t matter to any of them. They’re still gone. They’re still dead, in one way or another.

The letters I wrote them didn’t matter. My forgiveness doesn’t matter. My kindness doesn’t matter.

I can do all the “right” things and remain punished by others’ decisions. In a sense, nothing I do matters.

Nothing I did matters.

They chose this, they did this, and nothing I did deserved that.

So… nothing I do matters.

* * * *

And yet… it all matters. Maybe it didn’t matter to them, maybe it did in some ways, but ultimately it didn’t.

Healing reminds me that it all mattered — it all matters.

I’ve experienced how much kindness matters. Again and again and again, people extend kindness and grace and support, and others’ actions matters. If others’ kindness and cruelty matter, mine does too.

Many have said that my words matter. Sometimes it’s difficult to see how one’s actions matter when he or she experiences so much pain because of another’s actions.

Sorrow rips apart time and space, too. How hard it is, then, to see one’s importance and brilliance in a world clouded with such potent pains.

* * * *

She was beautiful, she was real, she was my Momma.

She loved me, but that didn’t matter either. It did and it didn’t.

Week 50

It’s incommunicable how much life grief takes from you.

It’s the life itself.

It’s the relationship.

Then, it’s all relationships.

It’s the griever’s energy.

It’s the griever’s social capacity.

It’s the griever’s concentration.

It’s the griever’s loss of clarity.

It’s the griever’s loss of stability.

It’s the griever’s loss of comfort.

It’s — The list never stops.

Every single survivor is affected holistically, and it’s impossible to communicate. It’s impossible for outsiders to understand, it’s impossible for outsiders to see, and perhaps it’s impossible for outsiders to believe.

It’s impossible for survivors and observers to fathom.

So much life gone with the loss of one individual’s life. It takes everything. She took everything from me.

She took everything from me. There is not a corner of my life unaffected by her decision.

Some people try their hardest to beautifully ease the burden she left, some people intentionally add to that burden.

Nearly a year ago, volunteers from the Women’s Ministry at my mother’s church joined together to create a beautiful atmosphere after her funeral. They provided nourishment and filled a room with flowers, honoring my mother and my family. I often think of the beauty they created, and the tenderness they wanted to continue towards me and my family, with gratitude and kindness. They eased the burden.

Our small group raised a small fortune to help support me and Scott and Sawyer when we were out of work, and they even made a sweet basket for my dad.

Dozens made and brought food to our families. Some sent packages, some gave books, some brought flowers.

Some still do.

There’s so much loss in this life after death, it’s as if the acres of my life have burnt to the ground. The fire of her death consumed everything, and every bit pained me to death, too.

Life on every acre ceased that day, but the ground of my life remained. I lived.

I live, this empty, decimated, desolate life, but life returns after all wildfires. Maybe at first it’s just grass, and then wildflowers, and then one day maybe trees will grow and roots will return to this ground that’s covered in ash.

So much life destroyed with the death of one so beloved.

Week 49.1

The worst part about our estrangement from Mom’s church is all the innocent bystanders… walking in and embracing all the wonderful people we used to engage with every Sunday. All the people who loved my mom, all people — especially people that aren’t on the executive staff there, who tried their best to help facilitate healing and not injuring — that we’ve lost access to because of a few people’s poor and cruel decisions. None of this was their fault. None of this was my fault, either. We didn’t ask for this.

There have been an abundant people from Mom’s church, staff members and congregants, who have been amazing and who have done their best in this terrible situation to reach out and extend their love. I’ve gotten messages and letters and all sorts of sweet notes.

I spent the last nine months (about when we found out about the sinister plans) fearing for my life and the lives of my family members because of my grandparents and the church’s leadership. Fearing that anytime I connect with someone from that church — will they tell the executive staff something about my life? Will the staff tell my grandparents? Will someone use this connection to hurt me and my family? Because they want to hurt me and my family.

When safety becomes a major concern it relationships, it’s best to leave those relationships, and that hurts most for the people who didn’t want to hurt us. For the people who didn’t know about any of this, all because of the few people who did know. All because of the few people who did hurt, and they hurt intentionally. Calculatedly. Coldly. Cruelly.

For a long time, I kept the majority and the specifics quiet because I didn’t want things to get worse. I don’t know what these people are capable of, because what they have done astonishes me.

The worst part about all of it is missing so many of you, and missing them too. Because you don’t stop loving people just because they hurt you. I really, really loved these people.

But love protects. It doesn’t intentionally inflict harm.

Love shelters. Love seeks the best of its beloved. Love heals.

Love doesn’t do what they did.

So many relationships were lost because of my grandparents and my aunt. They wanted that, and my Mom’s executive staff [likely unintentionally] partnered with them to accomplish it.

I didn’t stop going to Mom’s church because it was too painful — I felt I had to stop going for the safety of me and my family, and that is horrific and tragic.

* * * *

I miss many of you. I miss your smiles, I miss your hugs, I miss the way you would have brought healing.

I know you miss my Mom, too. I know you miss us. I haven’t forgotten you, and I cherish the ways you long to show up for us.

I’m sorry for the hurt this has caused you, too. I would have liked to mourn with you in tears and in embraces, instead of through messages and comments.

* * * *

My grandparents and aunt attempted to ruin my life and the lives of my family members. They won’t. I’m not hiding anymore, and I’m not continuing to cover up what has been done.

I’m not afraid of them.

I love them, and I do miss my grandparents. I miss having an extended family that I thought loved me, but perhaps they were simply glad to see their genetics reflect back at them in my smiles.

* * * *

I’m not bitter. I am sorrowful. I am disappointed. I am perplexed.

I work on forgiving them everyday, like my brother Sawyer wrote, “radical forgiveness.”

Forgiveness always comes with a cost: it surrenders justice and vengeance in pursuit of mercy. It says “I’m okay with letting this go,” while deeply hurting. It’s wrestling with injustice, while watching the offender carry on as if all is well. It’s the mental weight of knowing that an offense will never be made right, accepting that, and choosing to live a full life inspire of it.

I forgive my grandparents, aunt, and church leadership, but I will not entrust my heart and my life to them. She loved them and spent her life protecting their flaws and serving them.* I won’t make that same mistake.

*Note: I do not blame my grandparents, aunt, or her church’s leadership for my mother’s suicide. If you are being abused and mistreated, seek help. The crisis like is 988.

Also, it’s really not necessary or helpful to call the church enraged about anything I have posted. They’ll reach out to me to complain that I wrote anything and that you reached out to them. Just forgive them with me. They didn’t know what to do, they weren’t prepared for any of this.

To the church leadership — Sorry if you get a bunch of calls or some reaction out of all of this. Not my intention. But, this really happened. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t to protect your egos.

Week 45

Oh, the things we do in the name of love

Oh, the misguided things we do in the name of love.

Oh, the wicked things we do in the name of love.

* * * *

Welcome to death week, my friends.

May contains too many Death Holidays to list, too many pain points to discuss. I draw small blue hearts in my calendar on each Death Holiday/anniversary/marker to delineate the importance of the day: five blue hearts for May.

One of my siblings has a birthday this month — a glimmer of hope amidst a month marked with endings. It will be his first birthday without his Momma though, and that will be difficult. I marked my birthday with a blue heart this past year. Because, like I inscribed last week, every milestone regardless of how happy is shaded by what isn’t. It’s as if every moment is captured in a black-and-white photograph: you can see the smiles, you can see the joy, but the dissonance chills the ambiance.

* * * *

This week I’ve been struck by the cruelty of imperfect love.

Some say people die by suicide in an attempt to unburden their loved ones, others say anger drives people to violence, and many say shame or depression or overwhelm or a mirad of other things… all things we can’t validate because the only people who know are dead.

Rita Schulte pens it well in her book Surviving Suicide Loss, educating “Suicide doesn’t end the pain. It only lays it on the broken shoulders of survivors.” So, we survivors carry it and oftentimes feel more dead than alive. We feel hallow rather than of substance, opaque rather than solid.

People who knew my mom feel a special connection to us because we were a part of her, even if they did not know us well before she ended her life.

Some people honor that connection with kindness, empathy, and love. These are a balm to our shattered heart and aid in our healing.

Others treat us with contempt and cruelty — I’m not writing about people who couldn’t show up [that is okay], I’m writing about the people and organization who intentionally inflicted wounds. It happens to all suicide survivors in some form. Books tell us to expect it.

But one thought haunts me in the wake of their cruelty…

If you could be so cruel to me and my family, what did you do to my mother?

What did they do to her?

Week 44

I miss when life was effortlessly happy. I miss when it was easy to go out with my husband and simply enjoy the moment or the meal or the adventure.

Now, memories and grief cloud every moment. Dinners are particularly difficult and I’m not exactly sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with the thousands of dinners I enjoyed with my family. There used to be six of us: four rowdy kids and a Mom and Dad. It was fast — with three growing boys, especially, dinner seemed to go so quick. I love having dinner with my sweet husband, but it’s a stark contrast to what was once was my home.

We go to places we used to take my parents, and I can’t help but think of the smiles and laughter the four of us once shared. Many were places Scott and I first discovered together, then brought my parents to escapade with us.

Presence, they say, is the key to happiness. I wholly believe that — romanticizing the past and dreaming of the future tends to destroy any chance at present happiness, but there is also a time to grieve.

Grief is a whole body experience — its brain damage, as its simplest explanation, and it affects everything. The more traumatic the death and the closer connection, the more damage is inflicted.

Brain damage takes time: slow, lethargic, low-stimulus, and quiet to heal. In our western world, grievers are not often privileged to this… we have to go to work, we have to keep up with responsibilities, we have to continue with normal living. For the majority of our days, we have to pretend it’s okay. And to an extent, it is okay. To an extent, it is happy. Because, once again, it’s a both-and.

It’s a dichotomy of emotions.

But I miss when it was just one — just happiness, just tiredness, just excitement. I miss that simplicity.

I miss just celebrating and really celebrating, not thinking of those who can’t celebrate with me.

Even at our wedding, I remember crying with my Mom about how Patrick couldn’t be there. We didn’t have to say it aloud — one look and it was easy to tell we were both heartbroken about it.

And then she left me, too.

That fact will be painful everyday and even more poignant at every milestone for the rest of my life. And that just sucks.

* * * *

So we celebrate, and I cry. I try not to… not to suppress the grief, but to experience the today.

I don’t want to be happy and sad [simultaneously], I just want to be happy, but I don’t think that can ever happen again.

A Stolen Life

Oh how beautiful this life would be
if only you chose to stay with me.

Instead, in solemn sorrow you lost your mind
and chose to leave this weary world behind.

Violence overtook your meekest soul
and love was lost with this beautiful life you stole.

Tips for Communicating with a Person in Mourning

  • Be gracious. Do not be surprised if someone deep in mourning gets a little snippy with you, is irritable, is not very talkative, or tends to dominate the conversation. It’s not you, it’s that mourners have a lot got going on. If you are in mourning, be gracious with yourself and with your family. I’m sorry if those around you haven’t experienced much grief — it’s incredibly hard to fathom a grieving mind if you haven’t experienced a deep personal loss.
  • “I’m sorry” feels like such a weak thing to say, but it encompasses a tremendous amount of emotion and care. The short phrase empathizes with the survivor and often creates an understanding between two hurting people.
  • Acknowledging the situation is better than avoiding the topic altogether. It may be awkward to speak up, but a simple “I see you,” goes a long way.
  • The less decisions a person in mourning needs to make, the better. Mourning requires an enormous amount of mental energy, and helping make a decision alleviates a bit of mental fatigue.  Don’t be surprised if a griever locks up / shuts down if you ask them what you perceive to be a simple question. Nothing is simple in grief. Nothing. 
  • Presence is best. Be, share, and create emotional safety.
  • It’s okay to ask “How are you doing?” It’s a simple phrase that shows you care, but monitor your tone while asking. There’s a significant difference between an excited “how are you!?” and an empathetic, “so, how are you doing?” Odds are, a mourner is not likely to match excited energy.
  • It’s not okay to ignore the situation. The unknown of grief can make one feel awkward and uncomfortable when he or she does not know what to say nor how to act, but a simple acknowledgment of “I’m sorry for your loss,” is preferable to pretending to act normal. Talk about the elephant in the room. It’s all that the griever thinks about. The mourner cannot act normal, he or she is in deep grief. Please do not put a mourner in a situation where he or she feels pressure to be normal.
  • It’s okay to ask if a survivor wants to talk about it — if one is close friends with a griever, the bereaved may crave the kindness of a listening friend. If one is more of a stranger to the mourner, the griever may be uncomfortable talking about the situation. No matter the reaction, it’s okay to ask. Better to ask than to ignore.
  • Declaring “Your [loved one] is always with you,” is not helpful. Perhaps it will be in the future, but in the first few days it’s more of a reminder of the chasm between the mourner’s life and his/her loved one’s death. This phrase is especially painful for a suicide survivor, who is left with an incredibly deep abandonment wound. 
  • Letters are a great form of communication. They are incredibly thoughtful and sweet. Unlike a text or phone, letters are calming — there is little pressure to respond and they are crafted with care. Sending a mourner a letter is a kind thing to do, and it means more to the survivor than you realize. Even if a griever does not reach out after receiving a letter — he or she likely forgot — that letter meant a lot. 
  • Calls are easier to answer than text and/or instant messages, but a mourner might not always want to talk and they will likely forget to call you back. Don’t feel bad if you call multiple times – calling shows that you care. Texts and instant messages are great too, but a bereaved individual may only have the capacity to answer a few 2-3 messages a day per day, so please be gracious with their delayed response.
  • If you have to start a sentence with “I’m sorry to ask you this,” or “I’m sorry to pry, but…” do us both a favor and don’t ask that question. That’s your conscious telling you that, yes, it is an inappropriate question to ask.
  • Simply reach out: via text, via instant messenger, commenting on posts. The survivor may not responded, but often appreciates them. Messages help. Survivors appreciate reading about your experience and it can feel validating and comforting to see friends’ support, prayers, and encouragement. A simple moto to remind yourself is that you may need to reach out to a survivor 3 times before the survivor realizes you reached out at all.
  • Podcast, sermons, videos, and songs are not necessarily helpful. A survivor does not have the energy or focus to listen to hours of lectures. This can quickly feel overwhelming.
  • Share your stories of the person who passed away. Survivors want to hear them.
  • Educate yourself. Don’t make a survivor educate you. It’s 2026 — there are multitudes of resources (even Chat GPT) to help you navigate how to support survivors.
  • Keep inviting, even if the mourner keeps turning down invitations. Celebrations are incredibly difficult for a mourner, though we are truly happy for others. Grieving makes one sensitive and easily overstimulated. If a mourner thinks an event will be triggering, he or she is likely not going to attend the occasion. Triggers mean tears or irritability, and a mourner will not want to take attention away from someone else’s event by letting their emotions surface. Mourners want to support their friends, but they have very little capacity to do so.
  • Remind the griever how much he or she means to you. Again, someone in mourning simply can’t show up for their friends in the same way they did before. This can make a griever feel incredibly isolated, feel like a bad friend, and anxious about their relationships. Mourners need a lot of reassurance and reminders that they are loved and are not a burden. We are hyper aware of how little we can give in relationships, and that scares us.
  • Be kind.
  • Understand that survivors are unfathomably exhausted. Honor that.

Future Ways to Help

  • Small tasks are incredibly helpful — doing a load of laundry, wiping down a counter, calling to set up a dental appointment. Sometimes it’s hard for me to even remember to put a pair of shoes on – it’s invaluable to notice those little things that may be neglected and to help one another out.
  • Listen. Create a safe space for the wounded. A survivor may want to share details such as how their loved one died, this is a privilege and not a right. This sacred information should be honored with respect and reverence.
  • Create a “GoFund Me” or something similar on behalf of the survivors
  • Lawn care
  • Meals: Meal trains are incredibly helpful, please do this for your grieving friends.
  • Gift cards, DoorDash, Uber Eats

Resources

  • Read Megan Divine’s It’s OK That You’re Not OK. It’s an excellent book that discusses the cultural dismissal of grief and loss. We live in a culture that has left behind the art of lamentation and grief, leaving mourners with even more confusion to their natural response to tragedy. Amazon link: https://a.co/d/bHe9yHY
  • Read chapter 17 of Mel Robbin’s Let Them theory. Amazon link: https://a.co/d/0eER0zBJ

Week 41

I don’t think it’s very miraculous that we can’t kill a God — I don’t think it’s miraculous that Jesus rose from the grave. It’s miraculous that we murdered the son of God and that he loves us anyway.

Jesus didn’t come to this earth to die — he came to embody love. He came to see the marginalized, to be with the hurting, to heal the broken… and humanity killed him for that.

Of course we can’t kill a god.

I think we’ve missed the point, focusing on his resurrection as if we really had the power to vanquish the creator of life.

The miracle isn’t that he died, the miracle is that he came and then he returned when mankind treated him atrociously. The miracle is that he knew he’d be treat maliciously and he still chose to love us. The miracle is his love and compassion and grace and dignity. The miracle isn’t that mankind couldn’t kill God, the miracle is that he came back.

We’ve missed the why.

Jesus came to offer us a glorious life where we live in community, care for the marginalized, and aid in one another’s healing and he came back even when it killed him. He came and he returned to love.

Love never ends.

You cannot kill it, you cannot deny it, you cannot avoid it, you cannot pretend it doesn’t exist. Love is eternal. It transcends space, time, memory, life, and even death.

We feel tortured and agonized and anguished in grief because sorrow is love’s winter: grief is the other side of love, because love is endless and unfathomable. Love does not end in death — that is why grief stays with us forever, because love is eternal.

Mankind cannot kill Jesus, not eternally, because Jesus is love, and love cannot be killed… just like how a god cannot be killed. Mankind absolutely murdered Jesus, but you can’t obliterate something eternal. It’s not possible, and, therefore the resurrection isn’t miraculous. The miracle is that he loves people despite the fact that we murdered him.

In the Christian world, the Easter season seems to glorify death. There’s nothing beautiful about murder. There’s nothing good about Good Friday — nothing at all. Jesus didn’t have to die to save us, Jesus died because he was murdered. As Peter declared, “You denied the Holy and Righteous One… You killed the source of life” and God raised him from the dead (Acts 3:14-15).

In his own words, Jesus said “I have come so that they may have life and have it in abundance” (John 10:10). He said this to his murderers and to the people who despised him. Our miracle isn’t his resurrection, it’s his love for us.

* * * *

I’ve grown to despise the Christian — perhaps the Western — glorification of death. I reject it, and it sickens me.

Yes, this is the first Easter without my Mom. She always called it “Resurrection Sunday.” She still made us Easter baskets, she even made Scott one too.

This time of year is terribly triggering for me. I spent Easter 2019 in the hospital with Patrick. I found him at a hotel, passed out and over dosed. I called 911 and they pumped his stomach. My roommate dropped me off at the hospital and I spent the night there with him as he came off of his high.

He was shocked I stayed the whole night, and I was saddened that he would be so shocked. I told him that he’s my brother, I loved him, and I would not leave him like that. He asked me if I really believed that God could set people free (John 8:36), and I sang to him Hillsong’s rendition of “Who You Say I Am.” I was 21, I felt 60 that night. I told my roommate a few days later I wasn’t sure how he could keep living like this. I pondered that the alcohol or hallucinogens would end him, but I never would have imagined that he would commit suicide less than 10 days later.

Spring ushers a multitude of mourning: Easter, my sweet friend Walter’s death, Patrick’s death, Mother’s Day, Mother’s birthday, Mother’s death.

I mourn the dead, and I mourn the living: I mourn my grandparents and my Mother’s church. Sometimes it feels like they killed me, too.

* * * *

Good Friday and Easter are about so much more than a deity’s life and death: it’s about a murder and a radical love that changed the world.

Stop glorifying death. It’s killing us.

Week 40

This sadness sits comfortably in my chest, cavernous in my heart. It’s poignant darkness and chill courses through my body and sometimes escapes from my eyes, but most of the time it stirs beneath the surface ever-present and ever demanding I acknowledge it and tend to it.

This sorrow upholds me, it caresses me and comforts me. Sorrow is love’s winter: we experience sorrow because we love. It’s love gone cold, love that’s missing its object of affection, love that persists after loss.

I’ve ponder the irony of 40 weeks since my brother said “Nine months, that’s how long it takes for a baby to be born” last week. Instead, no babies, just reminders of death everywhere. In this Easter season of budding life, our days are shrouded in death. Life and babies and joy and resurrection, only to be left motherless and childless and filled with death.

What are we, we children with no mothers?

It’s love that is eternal, it’s memory that crosses the bounds of time. The dead exist vividly in our minds and in our memories, and our love for them connects us when their bodies have returned to the earth.

Emotions are, eternal, uncontrollable, inevitable, and inherent. Emotions may make us feel trapped or elated, delighted or dismayed. Feelings aren’t the problem. Emotions are not positive or negative, they or not bad or good. Some feelings are painful, some are delightful, some give heart palpitations. There is no good or bad here, there is simply the human experience and the emotions that allow you to embody the depth of the universe.

Nothing is wrong with your feelings. Nothing is wrong with you. Feelings/emotions indicate what is and isn’t important, what we do and don’t like, what is and isn’t okay. Emotions demand to be felt, acknowledged, and tended to. Pretending they don’t exist doesn’t help. Punishing oneself for their existence doesn’t help. Minimizing them doesn’t help.

Sadness, anger, grief, anxiety, and a litany of other emotions belong to you. They are part of you, they are kind indicators of your experience and they must be tended to, given a seat at the table, brought before a trusted community, and validated. It’s in safety and acknowledgment that we begin to heal.

Yes, this sadness sits with me. Yes, this pain washes over me. I deeply feel all that is not right in my life because none of this is okay.

Mothers aren’t supposed to leave their babies.

Grandparents aren’t supposed to exploit their children and sue their grandchildren.

Aunts aren’t supposed to destroy families.

Churches aren’t supposed to act like their staff member’s life was a stain on their reputation, and punish her family in the process.

Brothers aren’t supposed to cut their lives short.

Stigmatization of suicide survivors isn’t supposed to exist.

But all these things happen, and the only way to heal from it is to acknowledge how much it isn’t okay and to find true support.

Your feelings are not a curse, they are meant to protect you and guide you into tender and caring spaces.

So, I sit with my sadness and I allow it to comfort me. I allow it to teach me what I need to feel whole in my world that is so broken. Emotions take us where words cannot reach: I free my sadness to take whatever form it needs, and I free myself to heal from incommunicable hurts.

40 weeks of death, so many decades of life. Oh, how strange are these numbers and milestones that mar us.

Week 39

How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.

Ryan O’Neal, creator of Sleeping at Last, composes astoundingly beautiful melodies with profoundly deep lyrics and is thus one of my favorite artists. His ballad Saturn hosts the aforementioned lyrics. O’Neal pens reflective songs portraying the ornate nature of life, drawing imagery from astronomy, personality, faith, and earth.

Lately, I’ve been pondering about life’s beauty and tragedy. Too often we hear the derogatory phrases about our existence; “Well, that’s life,” as if the universe demands we be disappointed, “Life sucks,” “Life is hard,” and a deluge of other cliches with similar messages. We create an undertone of disaster and negativity with these phrases, yet they simultaneously minimize the struggle. “That’s life [so stop complaining].” “Life sucks [so move on].” “Life is hard [so stop expecting anything different].”

One of my greatest passions is normalizing the depth of the human experience through delineating natural emotions, and I’m an immense proponent in admitting how painful life can be, but I’m drawn to the simple truth of O’Neal’s words. How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.

We teach one another that growing up is painful, but we say it as if that’s “just the way it is.” Life isn’t painful because God or the universe or some force is out to get us — life is painful because other human beings hurt us and because we often hurt ourselves, too.

Life is not bad, life is not hard. People’s choices are bad and they make it hard. Sometimes our choices are bad, and it makes life hard, too. But life at its core is not hard — life is a gift.

Life is precious. We see this in the beauty of new life, we see this in the dignity of a life well lived, we experience this in the relationships that give us life. Life is not to be condemned but to be loved, shared, explored, and freed.

I reject the concept that life is hard. Yes, so many things in our lives produce unfathomable amounts of pain that we will carry with us forever, but that truth does not negate that life is a gift.

In this life, we have ample opportunity to heal, to change, to love, to grow, and to enjoy this one beautiful gift that we have. It is our responsibility to ourselves and to one another to tend to our lives. In taking care of ourselves, in knowing what we want and need from life and acting on that, we transform our lives and undoubtedly positively impact the lives of those around us.

Life is hard because people make it hard. Life is hard because people hurt us, neglect us, betray us, and wound us. Life is hard because we ourselves, too, make choices that hurt ourselves, neglect ourselves, betray ourselves, and wound ourselves. May we remember that our lives, each, are gifts to ourselves and to one another.

We have got to stop talking about how life is terrible and how life is tragic and how Life/God/The Universe exists to make us miserable. That narrative is killing us. Life is not about suffering. The purpose of life is not in suffering. Loss and hurt and wounds are powerful and they drastically impact our lives, but life is so much more than our heartbreaks.

May we engage in life’s beauty, tragedy, and lightheartedness. May we enjoy what life has offered us and the goodness that life brings us. May you heal from the people who hurt you and may you heal from the ways you have hurt yourself.

Your life is precious, your days are your opportunities to change your world. Life is not out to get you. God is not punishing you. The universe is not hurting you. People hurt you, you hurt you, but that is not the final say in your story.

Your life is beautiful and your ability to change your world will change the world for the better, if you let it.

May we remember how rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.