Chapter One: I’m Just Curious
“Is suicide a sin?”
That’s a weird question, right? I mean, of course it is… or maybe it’s not. Or maybe you’re
reading this and thinking, What kind of question is that? I’d probably say that too — if I were
you. But I’m not.
We all have our opinions, even the sick ones. Even the ones that think a white rock on the side of
the road matters more than my big, loud, black burst of joy. Make it make sense. People’s logic?
I never really understood it. But I’m getting off track…
Let me ask you again—really ask you:
Is suicide a sin?
I grew up Christian. Taught right from wrong. God-fearing. Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Don’t question
Him. But somewhere between religion and reality, I got curious.
Not because I wanted to rebel. Not because I’m evil.
Because I was hurting.
I thought I was just a kid, trying to figure life out without consequences. That was my first
mistake. I lived by that quote:
“What’s done in the dark will come to light.”
But nobody told me how dark the dark could get.

People ask me all the time,
“Why’d you do it?”
“You had everything going for you.”
“Why mess it all up?”
The truth is, I felt alone.
No home. No peace. Just me and silence.
And the silence? It screams the loudest.
I lost her young — But I was too young to know what “lost” meant. It happened in 2011.
I didn’t feel the loss until 2016.
That gap?
That’s where the trauma lives.

I’m a better person now. At least I try to be. I hope people can see that.
Elementary school, middle school — same question every year:
“What do you want for yourself by the time you’re in high school?”
My answer?
To be okay.
That’s it. Just okay.
But nobody taught me how to get there.

Some days I’m good. Other days I’m losing my mind. I never knew if it was depression, grief, or
just me being dramatic. I didn’t even know the word for what I was feeling.
I just knew it felt like drowning.
Like I was searching for something I couldn’t name.

And now, when I think back…
It may be your sin, but it isn’t mine.
Even in my lowest moments, something inside me still held on. I don’t fully understand it, but I
picture her and I wonder what she felt. I hurt. But she must’ve hurt, too.
I love her forever. I thank her for who I’ve become.
You’re the reason I’m me

“Sometimes the loudest mess is just a heart trying to scream without words.”

Chapter Two: Mentally Absurd
I used to snap at everything. Didn’t matter if it was someone trying to help or just give advice —
I couldn’t take it. Redirection? Nah. I already lost the only person who ever really knew how to
guide me. After that, it felt like nobody could tell me anything.
My actions? Yeah, they looked crazy. Loud. Defensive. Outta pocket. But it wasn’t just
attitude—it was absence. I didn’t know how to be corrected when the one who used to correct
me was gone.
And not just gone.
Gone in a way I’ll never understand.
I ask myself that question all the time — not out loud, but in my spirit.
Why did she do it?
I don’t say her name here. I don’t say “mom.”
But if you know, you know.
And if you don’t… keep reading.

There was a time when I didn’t even know the difference between my actions and my mental
health. Everything blurred together. I’d act out, shut down, lash out, break down — and I
couldn’t tell if it was grief, trauma, or just me being messed up.
It took time for my mind to catch up. To tell me:
“You’re not wrong for feeling it. You’re human for dealing with it.”

Everything replays.
The trauma. The good memories. The pain. The wins.
All of it lives inside the grief.
Even my accomplishments feel stained sometimes, like I’m still trying to prove I should’ve been
enough to make her stay.
But grief doesn’t care about logic.
And healing doesn’t care about timing.

The first time I really felt her absence?
Fifth grade promotion.
I was supposed to be happy. I was supposed to feel proud.
But all I felt was empty.
That was my first real breakdown.
My first moment of knowing — not just in my head, but in my chest — that she was gone.                                                 Before that, I didn’t fully understand what “gone” meant.
Not like I did in that moment.
That day, I looked around and saw other kids smiling, hugging their moms, taking pictures.
And I had no one.
That’s when the sorrow showed up.
Loud. Quiet. Confusing. Heavy.

I always knew I was fighting something bigger than me.
I just didn’t want to admit it.
I tried to avoid it, ignore it, cover it up with a smile or an attitude or silence.
But I wasn’t okay.
I’ve had moments.
Attempts.
Breakdowns.
Panic attacks.

To the people who’ve judged me:
I forgive you.
To the ones who’ve only seen the worst parts of me:
This book is the rest of the story.
I’m a work in progress.
But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still building.
And that?
That ain’t absurd at all.
5th grade promotion. I was happy — for real. But what people didn’t see was the part of me
breaking down before the ceremony even started. Not on stage, not in the spotlight — but in the
moments leading up to it. Now, looking back as my 19-year-old self, I think I was just
overwhelmed.
I didn’t have the words for it then, but now I know it was grief.
Grief that looked like nerves.
Grief that sounded like, “Are you okay?”
Grief that felt like change — and I didn’t know if I was ready.
I don’t remember what I wore.
I don’t remember who clapped.
But I remember singing. And the song I sang that day still stays with me, like a memory that
never left.

I saw other kids with their moms. Their hair done. Their hugs tight. Their photos being taken like
nothing could go wrong. And me? I was proud of them. I wouldn’t ruin anyone else’s moment —
that’s not who I am.
But inside? I was asking questions I couldn’t say out loud.
Where is she?
Why didn’t she stay?
Why don’t I feel normal?
I held it in.
That’s always been my thing — hold it in until it holds me.

Nobody really noticed the shift.
The smile stayed on my face, so the sadness stayed hidden.
But I remember what it felt like to walk out of that auditorium and realize:
This is my life now.
Not just a missing parent. A missing piece.

The real tears didn’t come until 7th grade — and I’ll get to that soon.
But the 5th grade version of me?
She started to learn how to carry silence like a second skin.
And silence gets heavy.

Chapter Three : Cracks in the Mirror
I didn’t fall apart all at once.
I acted it out before I ever said it out loud.
Misbehavior was my breakdown. Talking back, shutting down, snapping on people — all of it was a
reaction to pain I didn’t know how to explain.
I couldn’t take guidance.
Not because I didn’t care…
But because the only person who really knew how to guide me was gone.

Back then, I didn’t call it grief.
I didn’t even call it pain.
I just knew that staying busy helped.
When I was in sports, I didn’t feel broken. I had structure, distraction, and something that made me feel
capable. I wasn’t the best on the team — but that never mattered to me. I was part of something. A
sisterhood. And I felt seen in a way I couldn’t get anywhere else.
The coaches had authority — the kind that didn’t feel like control, but protection.
They could correct me, push me, and I’d listen. I respected them. I followed directions.
Because finally, someone was giving me guidance and believing in me at the same time.
As long as I stayed moving, I didn’t have to feel like I was unraveling.
My grades? They stayed up.
Not because I was okay — but because they were my ticket out.
School and sports weren’t just school and sports. They were my survival.

But underneath all that motion… I still felt it.
In 6th grade, I wrote something during a moment where I felt like I was disappearing. I gave it to
someone I trusted — one adult who actually made me feel seen. I never thought I’d see that note again…
until years later, when I showed up online doing the very thing I once wrote about struggling to believe in.
He sent it back to me in a message that simply said:
“I have a letter you wrote for me when you were a pup. Imma send it to remind you to keep grinding!!!”
He kept it. All those years.
And when he saw me becoming the person I was always trying to find — he reminded me where it
started.
“I honestly don’t know what I love about me… I’m the strongest person what you all see. I love the
person I’m becoming, but I don’t love who I am… Everything hurts… I need to find myself to love
myself… I’m lost, I’m in a dark sky paradise. I’m a light, but I gotta find it. I don’t know how to tho.”
That letter wasn’t just pain on paper — it was my proof.
Proof that I always had hope, even when I couldn’t feel it.
I was never empty… just not full yet. And somehow, that was enough to keep me going.

I never crumbled completely.
I just bent into survival mode — and misbehaving became my cry for help.
I wasn’t seeking trouble. I was seeking attention. And not the loud kind, either… just any kind.

What saved me was never perfection.
It was the little bit of light I knew I still had in me.
Even if I couldn’t see it — I believed in it.
That light? It kept me alive.
Even when I didn’t want to live.
Even when the breakdown came.
Because truth is… I didn’t want to act out.
That wasn’t who I was — it was just the only way I knew how to speak.
I wasn’t asking to be labeled. I was asking to be understood.
All that noise on the outside was silence on the inside — I just didn’t know how to say,
“I miss her. And I don’t know how to be without her.”
I thought misbehaving was the problem.
But now I see it was a symptom.
Of sorrow. Of confusion. Of being a little girl trying to hold up a world that kept shifting underneath her
feet.
But what was really happening inside?
What was I trying to say when I pushed people away or broke the rules?
Was I asking for help, or just screaming into silence?
I didn’t have answers then.
But I knew one thing for sure: something had to give.

Chapter Four: The Breakdown Before the Breakdown
There’s this little girl inside of me who never really got the space to be little.
She learned too quickly how to swallow her tears, how to keep her hands folded tight in her lap, how to
make her voice small enough so it wouldn’t bother anybody.
She didn’t ask for that strength—it was forced on her when life pulled the rug out from under her too
soon.
I can still see her in my mind.
Sitting in a room that felt too quiet, staring at a world that didn’t make sense anymore.
Everyone kept moving, but she stood still.
And that’s when she learned the first dangerous lesson: if you want to survive, you have to act like
nothing’s wrong.
So she smiled.
She laughed when people expected her to laugh.
She did her homework, she showed up to school, she tried to be “normal.”
And in a way, that mask fit so well that people believed it.
But underneath?
Her chest was tightening, her little hands were shaking, and her heart was whispering,
“Please, somebody
notice.”
Nobody did.
And when the mask started to slip, people didn’t ask,
“Are you hurting?”
They asked,
“What’s your problem?”
Do you see the difference?
One invites you to open up.
The other shuts you down.
And for that little girl, it felt safer to shut down than to risk opening up.
That’s how the breakdown-before-the-breakdown begins.
It’s not one big explosion—it’s a slow leak.
A quiet unraveling.
A daily battle of pretending you’re okay while your inside world is caving in.
The little girl inside me started to fade, piece by piece, long before the outside world ever noticed
something was wrong.
And here’s the part that hurts the most:
She thought it was her fault.
She thought she was “too sensitive,” or “too dramatic,” or “too much.”
No one told her that grief doesn’t have an age limit.
No one told her that carrying pain at eight, nine, ten years old is still carrying pain.
So she grew up thinking silence was strength.
That’s how she survived the breakdown-before-the-breakdown.
By holding it all in.
By becoming her own comfort.
By putting herself back together in ways that only lasted until the next crack showed.
And that little girl?
She’s still inside of me.
Still whispering.
Still asking,
“Do you see me yet?”