The days are hard—far harder than that word can even capture. They’re nonstop and overwhelming. Four kids, practices, work, meals, laundry, a house that never rests. I’m constantly moving, constantly needed. There’s no pause button. And then night comes. I dread the evenings more than anything. When the house finally grows quiet and the last baby is tucked into bed, the loneliness settles in. The ache deepens. This used to be my favorite part of the day. Now I have to force myself to sit downstairs, alone with my thoughts.
This was our time. Our sacred space. This is where we would unpack the day together. Where I wasn’t just “Mom” anymore, but your best friend, your partner, the woman you fell in love with. You reminded me who I was when I forgot. You spoke life into the places where I felt like a failure. You never saw me as damaged goods, even when the world tried to convince me I was. You pulled me back gently when life beat me down. I miss hearing God’s truth spoken through you. I miss how you loved me. I miss the honor of being your wife. I miss… you. Just you.
How we laughed. Always joking, always teasing. We talked endlessly about each of the kids—their quirks, their personalities, which ones we worried about most. We dreamed about who they would become and how they might change the world. We admitted, often with laughter, that we had no idea what we were doing. How were we supposed to keep pretending we were real adults? And who trusted us with four kids and a house? In that chaos, we found beauty. Together, we built this messy, beautiful life. Together.
Now I literally set a timer to make myself stay downstairs, like a child stuck in timeout. I force myself to sit with this reality. Even walking up the stairs to bed hurts. I remember racing you up every night because, even in my 30s, I was still afraid of the dark. You loved exploiting that fear—turning off the lights, hiding, laughing. We really were kids raising kids.
And now here we are in what the experts call the “separation anxiety phase.” It sounds almost gentle, doesn’t it? I’d call it hell, but adding the word “phase” makes it feel official, I suppose. For 19 years, you were part of every single day of my life. This is where I face the truth that one day, my days without you will outnumber my days with you.
This is where the painful process of “two becoming one” is violently torn apart. From my body. From my soul. From my heart. This is where I bring my dreams to the cross, over and over again, and let them die. Where the beautiful dance of marriage unravels one day at a time. My ring feels impossibly heavy and strangely light all at once. This is where I not only miss you—but have to figure out who I am without half of myself.
Like an amputee, you’re cut from my body again and again. The phantom pains of the life we had gnaw at me constantly. Half of me is gone. I’m relearning how to walk, how to talk, how to function in a world that no longer includes you.
Sometimes I pretend you’re still here. Sitting in the other room. I’ll call your name just to feel it on my lips again. I call out, hoping—knowing—and my heart sinks when there’s no answer. Only silence. A silence so loud it’s crushing. I never knew silence could hurt this much.
Then the memories come flooding in—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And I find myself wondering why I ever complained about dirty laundry left everywhere. What I would give to find a trail of your clothes leading to the hamper. You never did understand that dirty clothes go in the hamper, did you? I want that back. I want you back. I want all of it back.
But I have to be honest, too. You were gone long before you were gone. I missed you even when you were sitting right beside me. I longed for your laughter more than I longed for air. I was desperate to hear your voice. Days turned into weeks of loneliness. Even when you were here, you weren’t really here. For years, I missed you—hour after hour, day after day, month after month.
Depression stole your smile.
Depression stole your energy.
Depression stole your humor and your joy for life.
Depression stole you from me. From us.
You fought, though. You fought so hard. And then you got so tired. When you couldn’t fight anymore, I fought for you. I fought for every appointment. I fought against every “I’m fine.” I fought to keep you breathing when you were already slipping away. The scars on my knees remain—painful reminders that I refused to accept defeat, even with your last breath.
I know you didn’t want this. You didn’t want this pain for us or for our babies. This isn’t the ending you would have chosen. But your brain told you we’d be better off without you. The one organ you tried to reason with was the very one that was sick.
So let me say this clearly—to anyone considering suicide, to anyone thinking, They’d be better off without me. It’s a lie. A devastating lie. Choose to get help. Choose to tell someone you’re struggling. Choose to fight—and keep choosing it. Every day. Every hour. Even every minute if you have to. One appointment won’t fix everything. One conversation won’t magically heal you. But go anyway. Then go again. It’s a battle. You are fighting for your life—and for the lives of those who love you.
You are breathing for a reason.
Don’t stop.
Keep living.
Fight. Keep fighting. And fight some more.
We need you.
Stay.
If you’re struggling with your mental health or having suicidal thoughts, please tell someone.
