Thirty years ago in January 1996, at the age of 21, I attempted to take my own life.
At the time, I was isolated from my parents who were disappointed and bewildered that I had left an elite college to end up at “just” a state school. I was in a failing relationship. I had no friends. One evening, I wanted to escape my pain, my numbness, and my profound sadness to finally, I thought, find peace in letting go. (I didn’t realize then that research shows thinking and decision making are affected for individuals in a state of suicidal crisis.)
I won’t go into the details of my attempt. Luckily, a man I’ll call William happened to walk out from the end of his work shift and find me. He rescued me at risk to himself. I have never seen or talked to him since that fateful day our paths crossed.
A few years after that attempt, I got married and, a year later, welcomed my daughter, Mallory. It was a happy, calm period of my life. A few years into my marriage, however, I began to show troublesome signs of depression and hypomania. Ultimately, my marriage failed, but the good that came from it –– in addition to the birth of my daughter –– was that I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I had suffered from it for more than a decade without knowing what was "wrong" with me. Looking back on my life, I believe these episodes began when I was 12.
After my divorce and until I remarried, I was unstable at best, reckless at worst. I was not always med-compliant. I didn’t understand what my triggers were. It felt like I lurched from one crisis to the next until I met my second husband. And while I achieved some level of stability during my second marriage, it was plagued by jealousy and emotional abuse. I made my world, and myself, small to keep the peace with him.
Somewhere along the way, in my 30s, I found the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP). I cannot remember what led me there or inspired me to participate in my first Out of the Darkness Community Walk, in Kansas City. I’m not even sure what I told people as I was fundraising for the Walk, because up until that point, I had barely spoken about my attempt to anyone: not family, not friends, not coworkers, and certainly not strangers.
Why wasn’t I open about my experience? Because following my attempt, my story was not my own. It had been swept under the rug as a shameful family secret. I was pressured to explain that I’d been in a car accident.
Something shifted, though, when I found in AFSP a community of people who were either loss survivors or attempt survivors. At the Community Walks, I saw others who had experienced unimaginable pain but were oddly still hopeful: hopeful that by being open about their experiences and bringing this topic out of the darkness, it could ultimately save someone else’s life. If they could tell their stories, maybe I could find my voice and tell my own.
That first Walk in Kansas City was on a Saturday morning at the riverfront park along the Missouri River, a cold wind pushing a small crowd of loss and attempt survivors as we walked for a few miles together. Every year following that I participated, the Walk grew larger and larger; and every year, there was a contradictory mix of pain and hope.
As I’ve shared my story at the Walks over the years, nearly everyone has shared a story of their own –– of personal losses, or their own attempts. Statistically, most people have been affected by suicide and mental health issues in some way, and the place where they can start to find healing is in community. AFSP provides that community, along with critical resources to meet the unique needs and challenges of underserved and underrepresented groups. They provide funding for cutting-edge research. They advocate for legislation. They deliver education programs and loss support. And more than anything, through local chapters throughout the country, AFSP provides the space and support to build community: a safe environment in which to emerge out of the darkness and into the light –– together.
This year is the 30th anniversary of my suicide attempt. I found myself thinking back to that person who helped save my life that day. Eager to connect, I engaged a private investigator to find William, and consequently was able to send him a long letter of thanks, along with photos of my daughter and me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever meet William again. He didn’t write back. But at AFSP’s 2026 Overnight Walk –– a special event taking place in a different host city each year, which I finally decided to attend because of the timing of my attempt anniversary and because it was held in Chicago, where my daughter lives–– I met another “William,” someone else who had coincidentally saved a young woman’s life more than 30 years ago.
As he and I shared our stories, he offered this reassurance: “Your William has never once regretted his actions that night. He will just be glad to know you’re okay.”
Because of the AFSP community, I am.
