Writing about suicide is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done—not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it’s heartbreakingly close to home. I’ve lived through it in a way I rarely speak about, and the emotional weight it carries is something I feel in my bones.

The truth is that my daughter tried to take her own life during her first year of college.

Even now, years later, the memory hasn’t faded. It’s etched into me. I can still see myself running down the road, desperate to reach her. I remember the ambulance, the flashing lights, the confusion. I climbed in, not knowing what had happened, only knowing I needed to be with her. She looked so small—terrified and fragile.

At the hospital, surrounded by police and uncertainty, I stood there trying to make sense of it all. No other cars. No other people. Just my own vehicle, the one she had borrowed to take photos in the park, sitting on the side of the road with the front end completely smashed in.

When we were finally alone, she looked up at me with trembling eyes and said, “Ma, I tried to kill myself.”

I wanted to believe I’d misheard. But I hadn’t. And in that moment, I didn’t know how to help her. I just saw my daughter—scared, vulnerable, and in pain—reaching out for my help.

The shock of what happened was beginning to become reality. I knew she was depressed, unhappy with school, friends and everything at this time in her life. We just spoke about plans to change colleges and explore other activities she could possibly do to get her through the semester. But I never imagined she was in such deep despair that ending her life felt like the only option.

I didn’t tell the police what she had confided in me. They assumed she’d been texting while driving, and I let them believe that. I wished that were the truth. It would have been easier to explain.

Nikki never expressed thoughts about suicide. She shared her depression, her loneliness, but her darker, negative thoughts stayed hidden. 

Later, she opened up to me about what happened. She said it wasn’t planned—it was impulsive.

She spoke about the extreme negative thoughts she had, thoughts that she was too embarrassed to share, but she never had thoughts about suicide. It was just a sudden thought while driving, and somehow… she acted on it. Miraculously, she survived. But the aftermath—the emotional wreckage, the invisible scars—never really left her. They’ve become part of her story, etched deep beneath the surface.

This experience changed both of us. It taught me how silent pain can be. How easily it hides behind everyday conversations. And how important it is to listen—not just to words, but to what’s left unsaid.

Suicide awareness isn’t just about statistics or warning signs. It’s about stories like Nikki’s. It’s about the moments we miss, the truths we don’t speak, and the courage it takes to face them.