I'm Here For You

I Hear You. I See You.

A gentle heads-up: this post talks about suicide and about being there for someone in crisis. If you're struggling as you read, please know there's a note with help at the very end—and please use it.

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"Mom! Em is here for you!" (I've changed her name.)

I made my way from the kitchen to the front door, where our sweet teenage neighbor stood timidly, shoulders nearly up to her ears. "Can you watch my siblings for a while? I don't feel very good." She looked so put-together for someone claiming to be sick—her hair braided, trendy clothes, even a pair of fake eyelashes that made her look older than she was. I was relieved it didn't seem like an emergency this time.

Later that afternoon, I had a decision to make. My dance company's director had personally messaged me about a special master class with a guest teacher coming all the way from the city—I ached to be there. But I also had a voice rehearsal at the same time, songs to learn for an upcoming performance, only the most dedicated members traveling to perform. I truly wanted both.

And then, when it came time to get ready and go, it was as if my spirit already knew I wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't even a struggle. The decision had somehow already been made for me. So I just stayed home and kept cleaning, letting the time pass.

At 6:30 there was a knock. Em stood in the entryway alone this time. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"No," she whispered, so quietly I had to ask her to repeat it. "I feel suicidal."

Just showing up

I'd spent many hours over the previous months sitting across from Em's tear-stained face, just listening. I didn't have answers—I'm not a counselor, and I never pretended to be. Mostly I tried to do one thing: be present, and keep pointing her back toward the people and the professional help who could truly carry her.

A few weeks earlier, my phone had rung while I was eight hours away, in another state, at an event with my daughter. It was Em, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe—a panic attack. She begged me to come get her. I couldn't, not from that far, but I made her a promise: I would not hang up until I knew she was safe. While I stayed on the line, my daughter used her own phone to reach my husband, who was only minutes from Em's house, and we worked to get her mom—who'd been at work with her ringer off—to her side.

Deep breaths weren't calming her. So, feeling a little silly, I asked, "Can I sing to you?" To my surprise, she said yes. And the moment I started, she quieted and just listened. I sang song after song—a couple in Spanish to gently pull her mind somewhere else, then Disney songs, then "Lean on Me" with a truly terrible attempt at beatboxing that I hoped might make her laugh. I sang for nearly an hour, parked in the pouring rain in a random lot, praying the whole time that God would wrap her in peace, until she told me her mom had reached her and they were safely home.

Last night, when she came to my door and whispered those words, I was honestly exhausted and all out of advice. So I just invited her in to sit. My eight-year-old did the rest—blowing soap bubbles across the family room while Em laughed and swatted at them. We read scriptures, said a prayer, and Em felt so at home that she scooped up my little one and carried her off to bed. By the time she left that night, the storm had passed. She was okay.

Why I never dismiss those words

Here's why I take "I feel suicidal" as seriously as I take a fire alarm, every single time.

When you love someone who lives with depression, those words can sadly start to lose their power to scare you. You hear them, the person surfaces again, life goes on—and slowly you can grow numb. I know this because I lost my own father to suicide.

My dad was, hands down, one of the funniest humans on the planet—the kind of person who lit up every room. But he lived with a depression so severe that one therapist called his the most extreme case he'd ever seen. Dad used to say the depression was his greatest fear, because he never knew when it would come, or when it would lift. A few weeks before he died, he told me, "It's really bad this time." Looking back, the signs were all there. We had simply grown too used to the pattern to see the warning.

So I made myself a vow: I will never let all these hard moments tire me out of believing, out of listening, out of showing up. Because one time a person isn't heard or believed could be the one time they act on the cruel lie that everyone would be better off without them. It is a lie. It is the illness talking, never the truth.

Let the warmth reach you

This morning we woke to a rare snow. Where I live, snow melts fast—but once or twice a decade, a hard freeze does real damage. Years ago a storm here killed a lot of palm trees.

If you know anything about permaculture gardening, you know the fallen leaves and debris around a tree aren't mess to be raked away—they're insulation. That layer of "imperfection" is exactly what keeps the roots warm enough to survive the coldest nights. I've been told that with the right blanket of it, a tropical tree can make it through a mountain winter.

And yet almost every yard around me is raked spotless. I think of a neighbor who works her fingers raw picking every last leaf and twig out of her rocks—and who lost several of her palms the winter it froze, because there was nothing left to keep them warm.

That's the picture I keep coming back to. So many of us push warmth away out of pride, or fear, or embarrassment. We don't want anyone to see our need. We rake our lives spotless so no one will know we're struggling—and then we wonder why we feel so cold.

Em is surrounded by warmth: a mom she's close to, counseling, an "adopted grandma," church leaders, neighbors, friends. Us. She's not too proud to knock on our door at her worst, and that humility may be the very thing that carries her through. I know what it's like to do the opposite—to hide away, spotless and freezing. It nearly cost me everything. Little by little, I had to let people's love reach me, in the good times and the very worst ones.

How are we treating our own souls? Do we try to rake away every imperfection so we look problem-free—and keep the warmth of others out?

Question. Persuade. Refer.

A dear friend of mine, a fellow dancer who lost her husband to suicide, recently trained in something called QPR and shared it with me (I'm passing it along with her blessing). QPR is like CPR—but for someone who may be suicidal. It stands for Question, Persuade, Refer: you learn to ask directly, to encourage them to get help, and to connect them to a professional. She said she felt she was meant to be in that training, and she wished more people valued it the way we value CPR. She's right. Most of us simply don't know the signs, or what to say. QPR training is available online if you'd ever like to learn it—I think it's some of the most important knowledge a neighbor, parent, or friend can carry.

To anyone reading this who is struggling

You are not a burden. The voice telling you that the people you love would be better off without you is lying to you—it is the pain talking, and pain is not a fortune-teller. Please don't take your life based on the word of something that only wants to hurt you.

Reach out. Knock on the door. Pick up the phone. Let the warmth in. In the U.S., you can call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, any time of day or night, and a real person will stay with you. Tell someone who loves you. You do not have to carry this alone, and you do not have to carry it in silence.

And to those of us who have lost someone this way: it is not your fault. However many signs you can see now, looking back, you loved them, and you did not fail them.

I tell Em all the time that one day she'll be able to help others through their storms, once she's weathered her own. If you can't find purpose right now, let this be it for today: live to tell your story. Live to tell someone else's. In the darkest moment of His life, when even His closest friends had fallen away, the Savior of the world was comforted by an angel. He knows perfectly what you feel—and He is here.

I hear you. I see you. Your pain is real, and so is the hope.

Cheering for you always,

Steffanie