To my 17yr. old self who attempted suicide.

A reflection on then and now.

👆 Listen or read today’s letter

If you’re new here, welcome! From a therapists office to your inbox - More to the Story is an authentic interweaving of psychoeducation through vulnerability. I explore healing, relationships, creativity, and faith through personal essays and clinical perspective.

Today is a personal essay. Disclaimer: this is a reflection on my suicide attempt when I was 17. If this is a sensitive or triggering topic for you, I encourage you call a safe person to process feelings that you have before, during, or after reading.

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This is my at 17. Homecoming king, top football player, lots of people knew me, but nobody really knew me. My insides didn’t match what others saw on the outside.

Blake,

I experience many emotions when I think about you. I feel grateful that your attempt wasn't successful. I feel angry—not at you, but at the reality of life at that time. And I feel deeply sad. I feel sad for you and with you.

I didn't used to feel this way when I thought about you. When I shared the story—three to four years after the fact—in college on a church stage, I mostly wanted people to feel sad for me. I wanted them to be amazed at my retelling of the story and inspired by my acknowledgment of God’s grace in the process.

At that time, I didn't know that I was merely recounting the facts while disconnected from any emotion. I wasn't aware that in wanting others to feel sad for you, I was actually longing for myself to feel sad with you.

I didn't realize that my acknowledgment of God's grace—while some of it was genuine—was mostly an attempt at spiritually bypassing the raw hurt and pain. It was as if I thought God was only, or at least more, concerned with the silver lining of the situation than with the boy who was in such a dark place to begin with.

We've done a lot of work since that cold February night in 2012 when time stood still and life almost ceased.

When I think of you in this moment, when I really slow down and move beyond cognitive thought to be with you and you with me, I feel sad. It’s a heaviness in my chest and a dropping of my shoulders that requires deep slow breaths.

I'm sad that you didn't learn how to regulate your emotions or turn toward others for co-regulation. I'm sad that you adopted certain coping mechanisms that helped you survive but also hurt others and yourself in the process. I'm sad that your shame, fear, and loneliness felt so overwhelming that not feeling anything seemed like a better solution. I'm sad that you valued your own voice so little that asking for help didn’t seem like an option.

You carried so much—the felt responsibility for others' emotions, the pressure to be the nice guy and a good boy, the burden of fear and shame for doing things you didn’t truly want to be doing, and the loneliness of not being fully known.

It was all so much. And I'm so sad it led to that February night. I remember it all so well, and I'm glad I remember it because it means the story didn’t end there.

We no longer look for silver linings. We accept both night and day, dark and light, as having equal value. We've come to believe there is goodness, mercy, grace, and mystery in both. The place you found yourself then and the place we find ourselves now—one is as important as the other. In light of that, I want to update you on where we are now.

We've moved through many seasons, each bringing unique pain and glory. We recently celebrated seven years of marriage to a woman who has been absolutely redeeming for us. She has helped us heal old narratives and experience a love we long dreamed of, just by being herself.

We're starting a company with our best friend, building a community of men embracing vulnerability and honesty to foster healthy relationships and reduce loneliness. Bet you didn’t see that one coming. We have people who value our voice so much they give us their email and choose to read our words. More importantly, though, we value our own voice.

We've become a therapist and own a thriving private practice. Daily, we witness people venture into the depths of their stories and guide them toward healing and transformation. You help me be a powerful guide.

We have the most beautiful daughter in the world. She's almost a year and a half now. Her smile lights up a room, and she waves at strangers when they walk by. She does a little dance in the mornings to "The Family Madrigal" from Encanto, and it is the definition of joy.

Tonight, she had a harder time falling asleep, so I sat on the floor next to her crib, and she held my hand through the bars. We looked into each other's eyes until hers gently closed and she fell asleep. Your love and sensitivity help me to be a present and engaged father. The more connected I am to you, the more I am connected to her.

I feel more connected to God when I’m connected with you. I feel more connected to life when I’m connected with you.

There's a lot I understand now about pain, loss, and trauma. There's still so much I don't understand. Though just knowing a lot doesn't change anything. To know is like looking at a landscape painting and imagining yourself there. To experience is like walking in the grass with your shoes off and feeling the breeze meet your body.

To go from knowing about you to experiencing you is a wonder that is difficult to put into words.

But I know what it means, and I sense you do too. And that’s all that matters right now.

I love you Blake. We’re okay.

Thank you for taking the time to read. Writing a letter to younger versions of myself is an excercise I’ve done before that I’ve found to be very therapeutic. I hope in reading this, you connect with a vulnerable version or part of yourself even if you aren’t a survivor of a suicide attempt. Maybe it inspires you to write a letter that stays in your journal or one that you decide to share. Your story and experience is worth a seat at the table.

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If you’re struggling, it’s okay to share your feelings. If you are in crisis, or helping someone who is, you should call 988 or visit your nearest emergency room.