A Letter to Myself on the Night I Attempted Suicide

Dear Me,

If you're reading this, it means you're tired. Tired of being alive. Tired of pretending. Tired of trying.

And yet… some part of you hasn't given up. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here reading this.

I see both parts.
I remember this night. I remember how heavy it felt — how loud the darkness was.

So first — just this:

Put your feet on the floor.
Feel the ground.
You’re still here.
That matters.

You don’t feel brave. You feel done.
Like you've failed at holding everything together. Like maybe disappearing is the only honest option left.

But listen — taking one more breath right now is resistance.

You’ve fallen into panic. Into numbness. Into habits you hate. And yet here you are. Still breathing.

That’s not failure.
That’s fury against the darkness.
That’s survival.

God isn’t ashamed of you. He isn’t sick of this version of you. He says He’s near to the brokenhearted. That means you — tonight, right now.

He honors the ones who keep breathing, even when it hurts.

I know your mind is loud right now.
It’s putting you on trial — listing every screwup, every failure, every reason you shouldn’t exist.

But your worth isn’t a verdict.
It’s a fact.

You were fearfully and wonderfully made before the pain ever touched you.
Before the diagnosis.
Before the heartbreak.
Before the spiral.

You’re still His.

You’re not “the suicidal one.”
You’re not your lowest moment.
You’re someone God wanted here.

Even now.

Your brain is time-traveling into disaster, isn’t it?

You’re carrying tonight, plus ten years of regret, plus every imaginary future where everything gets worse.

Come back.

Look around.
Name three things you see.
Touch something — your sleeve, the chair.
Name a sound — even if it’s just your breath.

You’re here. Not in those imagined futures.
Just here.

And God is here, too.

He’s not demanding a five-year plan from you. He’s not asking for certainty.
Just your next breath.

Take it now.
That’s enough.

I know people throw “gratitude” at you like a cliché. That’s not what I’m doing.

I’m saying: notice anything that isn’t hell.

This blanket is warm.
That song earlier made you feel something.
You’re still here.

Tiny lights count.

And please — stop speaking to yourself like your own enemy. You’d never talk to a hurting friend the way you talk to you right now.

God calls you to be tenderhearted.
That includes toward yourself.

Say it, even if it feels stupid:
“I’m doing the best I can.”

Let that truth live in the room with you, even if it feels hollow.

There’s pain in you that’s been there a long time. Shame. Rage. Regret.

You weren’t built to carry this forever.

Forgiveness isn’t pretending it didn’t hurt. It’s choosing not to let it keep bleeding inside you.

And it’s not just forgiving others.
It’s forgiving you.
The things you still punish yourself for.

You’re not your own executioner.
The cross already happened.

If you can’t forgive tonight, just whisper:
“God, I’m so tired of carrying this. Please help me let go.”

Even a crack in the wall lets in light.

Your brain keeps screaming that this is the end of the story. That it’ll always be like this. That nothing good is coming.

That’s not truth. That’s exhaustion.

Hope doesn’t mean you’re sure things will be okay. It means you refuse to treat despair like it’s prophetic.

God calls hope an anchor. And anchors are for storms — not sunny days.

If you can’t believe in hope right now, just leave the door cracked.

Picture one thing that could exist in the future. A person. A place. A moment. A dog you haven’t met yet.

You don’t have to run toward it.
Just don’t slam the door shut.

You were never a mistake.

Your life is not an error to be erased.
Even if you feel numb. Even if you feel useless. Even if you feel like no one would notice if you vanished.

You are God’s workmanship. His poem. His creation.

Maybe your purpose right now is just to stay alive long enough for a morning you can’t imagine yet.

Say this softly:
“My life still has meaning.”

Let it be fragile. Let it be whispered.
But say it.

You’ve carried so much alone. Too much.

I know reaching out feels impossible.
You’re scared of being dramatic. Of being too much. Of silence.

But isolation is where the lies grow.
The second you tell someone the truth — even a little — the lies lose oxygen.

Picture someone you trust a little. Imagine texting:
“I’m really struggling tonight.”

That’s it. That’s enough.

Let the next thing you reach for be a lifeline — not an exit.

There are people. There is help. And no, you're not a burden.

You were never meant to carry this alone.

If no one has told you lately — I’m glad you’re still here.

Not the cleaned-up you. Not the public you. You.

I know you can’t promise forever.
So just promise now.

Just one more breath.
Just one act of defiance.
Just tonight.

Reach out.
Tell someone.
Let God hold you while your strength runs out.

There’s a future version of you — me — who is so grateful you stayed.

You are worth surviving.
Please, stay.

With love,
— Your future self