There. I said it.
And even as I write those words, I am aware that physicians are not always comfortable saying things like that out loud.
In 2015, I was a physician. A mother. A U.S. Air Force Lieutenant Colonel and commander. A medical director. A wife. A daughter. A friend.
And I was in crisis. There wasn’t one thing that made me suicidal. I don’t believe there usually is. I think of it like a container sitting beneath a slow drip of water. Drop after drop.
Stress. Loss. Financial challenges. Relationships. Family. Identity. Expectations. The weight of being the person everyone expects to be strong.
The container keeps filling. And eventually, it takes only one more drop for the water to spill over.
When I reached that point, I told someone.
For a brief moment, the physician in me wondered what admitting this could mean. Medicine has a long and complicated history with physician mental health. Even today, despite significant progress, physicians can still worry about what seeking mental health care might mean for their careers.
But in that moment, I wasn’t functioning as a physician. I was functioning as a human being. And more than anything, I wanted my children to know that this is something we can talk about.
So I talked. I reached out to my ex-wife. She stopped what she was doing. She listened. She saw me. And she is one of the reasons I am alive today.
As we recognize Suicide Prevention Month this September, that is what I want to leave with you. If you find yourself standing at that crossroads, please tell someone.
A friend. A sibling. A colleague. A therapist. A physician. A crisis counselor. Someone you trust.
You do not have to have the right words. You do not have to explain why your container is full. And you do not have to decide whether your crisis is “bad enough” compared with someone else’s.
Despair is not a competition.
And if someone reaches out to you, you don’t have to have the perfect words either. You don’t have to immediately fix it. Sit beside them. Listen. Hold their hand if they want you to. Ask, “What do you need from me right now?”
Sometimes holding space is enough for that moment.
We have also changed the way we talk about suicide. Rather than saying someone “committed suicide,” I prefer “died by suicide.” Suicide is not a crime or a moral failure.
And suicidality is not cowardice. It is a human being in profound pain who needs care. I know because I have been there.
And I am still here.
If you’re supporting a teenager through mental health struggles, I wrote A Teen’s Life to help adults better understand what young people may be experiencing and how we can show up for them.
You can also watch my first TEDx talk, Childhood Trauma and What You Can Do to Help, where I talk about childhood trauma and what adults can do to better support young people.
And if you are struggling right now, please reach out. Call or text 988 to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Text HOME to 741741 to connect with Crisis Text Line. LGBTQ+ young people can also reach The Trevor Project for crisis support.
You matter. Your thoughts matter. Your story matters. And it is okay to say,
“I need help.”
What’s Happening Around Here
Speaking of still being here and still having work to do… Last Saturday, I had the joy of returning to South Carolina for a book signing. I got to sign books. Sell books. Meet readers. See South Carolina again after being away for years. And perhaps best of all, I was invited back!
I’m also beginning to expand my book-signing journey to other 2nd & Charles locations, and I’m excited to see where these books take me next.
Today, I’m sharing a photo from that day because this newsletter isn’t only about the fact that I have been suicidal.
It’s also about the fact that I survived.
Let’s Keep the Conversation Going
When someone you care about is struggling, what does holding space look like to you?
There isn’t one right answer. Maybe it’s listening. Sitting beside them. Checking in again tomorrow. Or simply letting them know they don’t have to carry everything alone.
Hit reply and tell me. I read your responses, and I’d love to hear what holding space means to you.
With love,
Dr. Lulu®
