Someone else understands

When I was about eighteen years old, I worked in a store in the small town where I grew up. One of my coworkers was a young boy, a weekend shelf stocker; he was kind, funny, and easy to talk to. Even though he was younger than I was, we became friends.

One afternoon I was driving through town when he flagged me down.

"Hey, Gabby... do you have a minute?”

I was in a hurry, and I do remember seeing the urgency in his face, but I was focused on where I was going. I told him I didn't have time and that we could catch up another day.

There wasn't another day. The next day he ended his life.

He left behind several letters, one of which was for me. I don't remember every word, but I remember what mattered. He thanked me for being his friend, and he told me not to feel guilty for not stopping to talk the day before. He wrote that it wouldn't have changed what he had already decided to do, he simply wanted to spend a little more time with me before he left.

I have carried that letter in my heart for more than forty years. I can’t help but wonder if there was some way I could have changed things if I had pulled over to talk to him.

Years later, a friend of mine was trapped in an abusive relationship. I offered her a place to stay, I answered countless phone calls, I encouraged her to leave over and over again.

She always went back. Eventually, I grew tired of it all, and I stopped answering every call. This was before texting and cell phones, when silence often meant days instead of minutes.

She ended her life. And again, I wondered if I had missed a moment that mattered, and that might have stopped her from making that choice.

Many years later, as a hospice nurse, I cared for a man whose partner had spent the last fifteen years looking after him. He was exhausted, heartbroken, and burned out in ways that are difficult to describe unless you have witnessed it. I offered resources and encouraged him to seek support. I did what I thought was right.

He ended his life.

Could I have prevented that somehow? I can’t help but wonder…

Three people.

Three losses.

Three moments that taught me something I wish none of us ever had to learn.

We desperately want there to be something we could have done.

Our minds replay conversations.

We search for signs.

We rewrite endings.

Sometimes there are warning signs. Sometimes someone reaches out. Sometimes a conversation, a therapist, medication, family, or simply being present, changes the trajectory of a person's life.

And sometimes... there are no signs at all.

Sometimes the battle is fought in complete silence.

As someone who has lived through these losses, and who has spent years sitting beside people at the end of life, I pay attention now.

If someone seems different, I keep an extra eye on them.

If I worry, I know to involve others.

If someone needs help, I do everything I reasonably can to connect them with support.

But I have also learned something equally important… compassion has limits. Not because compassion isn't powerful... but because none of us can control another person's choices. But that realization doesn't erase grief, and it doesn't erase regret.

I still wish I had stopped my car that afternoon. I probably always will. But I have had to learn to live with not knowing. Not knowing whether that conversation would have changed anything. Not knowing whether one more phone call would have been enough. Not knowing whether one more resource, one more visit, one more moment could have altered someone else's decision.

That uncertainty is one of the hardest parts of loving people.

Lately I have also been thinking about another conversation that deserves more care than it often receives. I frequently hear people describe Medical Aid in Dying (MAID) as "suicide." As someone who has been present for hundreds of patients who chose MAID, I do not believe those words are interchangeable.

Both involve death.

Both deserve compassion.

But they are not the same conversation.

MAID is a legal option in many states for people who are already terminally ill and meet strict medical criteria. These are people who are already dying. They are not choosing whether they will die, they are choosing how they will experience the end of a life that is already ending.

That distinction matters.

I have also met people living with illnesses like Alzheimer's or Dementia, who desperately wished that option existed for them but did not qualify under current laws. Their suffering was real, but because they didn't meet the legal requirements, they had no access to that choice. I personally know two people who ended their life because of this.

Those stories raise difficult ethical questions.

Questions without easy answers.

Questions that deserve thoughtful discussion instead of judgment.

Whether someone dies from mental illness, from terminal illness, or from choices made at the end of life, one thing remains true, human suffering deserves compassion, not assumptions. Not labels. Compassion.

We invest so much love into relieving the suffering of our animals because we cannot bear to watch them hurt. I wonder what it would look like if we invested that same urgency into mental health.

Into caregiver support.

Into making therapy more easily accessible.

Into recognizing burnout before it becomes despair.

Into creating systems where asking for help isn't so difficult.

If my experiences have taught me anything, it's this:

Pay attention.

Ask questions.

Answer the phone when you can.

Stay a little longer if you are able.

Help connect someone to support.

Love people well.

But if, despite all of that, someone makes a decision you could not stop... please don't spend the rest of your life carrying a punishment that was never yours to bear. We are responsible for showing up with compassion, we are not responsible for every outcome.

There is a difference.

And sometimes learning that difference is how we finally begin to heal.

Sometimes the most painful thing we ever learn is that love and compassion are not always enough to change someone else's story. But they are always enough to change the way we choose to live our own.

For a long time, I confused loving someone with believing I was responsible for saving them. Those are not the same thing. Love walks beside someone, responsibility carries them. And sometimes we try to carry people who were never ours to carry.

If you found yourself somewhere in these words... if you have loved someone you couldn't save, if you have carried guilt that was never yours to carry, or if you are still searching for peace...

I hope you will be gentle with yourself. You are not alone.

And if these words do nothing else, I hope they leave you with one quiet reminder...

Someone else understands.

I am sending you the gentlest hug... and a little extra love today.

xo

Gabby

If you are in the United States, and this piece resonates more deeply than you expected, please know you don't have to carry it alone. If you or someone you love is struggling with thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Someone is there to listen, 24 hours a day.