07/03/2026
I don't write things like this very often, and I'm certainly not looking for sympathy or attention. (No, that isn't passive-aggressive.) This is simply my story.
For the past six and a half years, since Dwight died by su***de, my mental health has been a roller coaster. Earlier this year, it felt like the highs and lows were finally leveling out. But depression doesn't care about calendars or accomplishments.
Before you read any further, know this is raw, honest, and emotional.
There was a day when I had it all planned. The day, the hour, even how it was going to happen.
I was going to make sure the people I love knew it wasn't because of them. It was because I couldn't see another way to get off the ride.
The strange thing is, if you looked at my life from the outside, it didn't make sense. I had received two prestigious awards. I had accomplished things in track and cross country that meant a great deal to me. I had good friends and a daughter who loves me.
Yet depression doesn't always care how successful you appear.
People might ask, "Why didn't you do it sooner?"
Because I still had commitments to fulfill.
Then, sometime in June, something changed.
Depression is a cruel disease. If you've never experienced it, it's hard to explain. You don't want to do anything. Sleep. Eat. Watch TV. Maybe have a beer...or three. You simply exist.
One morning I realized I had three choices.
I could continue living like that.
I could end my life.
Or I could wake up and become something again. Do something that mattered.
People ask what changed. My answer is simple.
I remembered that I still have the ability to make a difference. To help young people. To build something bigger than myself. To stop simply posting "You Matter" and actually live those words.
Every day I look at the tattoo on my wrist that reminds me my story isn't over.
I still fight the battle. Some days are harder than others. But I'm fighting it on my terms now.
That day I had planned has come and gone.
There is still far too much left for me to do.
When my time eventually comes, I don't want people standing at my memorial telling stories about who I was. I want to be here to live those stories with them.
If you're struggling, or if someone you know is struggling, please don't fight alone. Call or text **988**. Someone is there 24 hours a day, every day, ready to listen.
Your candle is still lit.
Your story isn't over.
You matter.
One day at a time.
One hour at a time.
One minute at a time.
