I hope more than I hurt.

4 min readNov 19, 2023

Yesterday was International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day and I missed it. Just like I missed so many of the signs that Maya was in trouble.

I am reliving the moments of that day, Friday June 17, 2022, and the last text I sent her, the one she would never answer: “Hey there! Checking in. Are you ok? Someone from your job reached out to me because they haven’t been able to get in touch with you the past couple of days.”

In “Things Fell Apart and Here We Are,” I wrote about this:

“That’s when we went to her apartment and found her.

Looking back, we realized that this six-week stretch was likely triggered by not being together during Mother’s Day — an isolation of the worst kind — but had obviously been preceded by a much longer struggle. Maya was not well. Maybe she was unable tell those of us closest to her, or maybe felt ashamed due to the stigma associated with mental health challenges. Maybe she worried about what would happen to her if a serious intervention were necessary. Maybe she was already past the point of making rational decisions about her health care crisis. Maybe it was none of those things, or all of them.

We learned that during this phase, Maya was detaching from reality, and it breaks my heart to know she traveled through such a dark place without me, alone, overwhelmed and unable to see a way through or out. I still ask myself why I didn’t see how bad things were getting for her, and how quickly they spiraled to the point of no return. To the end, where everything fell apart and there would never, ever be any putting any of it back together again.

We learned that Maya actually sought medical treatment for other, seemingly unrelated, health issues during this time but she was unable to vocalize the nexus of her being unwell: her mental health challenges. Without a full picture, it’s no surprise that the caregivers she saw were unable to connect the dots. Perhaps it was already far too late at that point. We’ll never know.

What I know now is that Maya could no longer keep going without serious help, and unfortunately, for Maya, that help never came.

This is where it all fell apart. And now, here we are.”

My God I wish I could have helped her. Every day I wonder what I could’ve done, even though I this was beyond my control.

Today I am checking in with my own grief. For me, the healing comes from sharing the journey — Maya’s story, my story, the deeply agonizing pain. It also comes from hope. The hope that my story will help other suicide loss survivors know they are not alone in their grief. The hope that Maya’s story will help others struggling with trauma and depression and anxiety know they are not alone in their suffering. The hope that sharing keeps the texture of Maya’s life readily available in my memory.

Wondering why is tough.

Missing her is tough.

Being the last of us is tough.

Watching my daughter weep openly for her TiTi is tough.

Knowing I didn’t make it to you in time is tough.

Wondering where you are and what happens to us all after this life is tough.

Getting ready for the holidays without you is tough.

Not being able to talk to you is tough.

And yet, I hope more — just barely more — than I hurt. And that is all I need for today.