Why I'm Still Here

And eventually, I heard words from a doctor that I will never forget:

“There is no hope of recovery.”

Imagine already struggling to find a reason to stay alive and then hearing that from someone you believed was supposed to help you get better.

I believed them.

And if there was truly no hope of ever getting better, I couldn’t understand why I should keep fighting.

4 A.M.

Only a few months ago, I genuinely believed my story was coming to an end.

I had reached a point where I could no longer imagine a happy version of my future. I had obtained what I intended to use to end my life, and somehow, I had even convinced members of my family to support my decision—something they deeply regret today and would never support if faced with that situation again.

My depression wasn’t caused by one event. It was years of mental illness, a difficult childhood, trauma, loss, and painful experiences piled on top of one another until eventually I couldn’t see beyond them.

For nearly 20 years, I had felt like I was fighting something that never stopped fighting back. I was exhausted. Reaching out for help didn’t even cross my mind anymore because I had reached out before. I had tried treatment before. I had fought before.

And in my mind, none of it had worked.

Then I remembered those words:

No hope.

So I decided I was finished fighting.

And then something incredibly strange happened.

As I reached forward, my hand passed over my phone.

I picked it up.

And completely out of nowhere, a thought entered my mind:

Check your credit score.

Even now, I cannot explain why.

I hadn’t checked my credit in years. I knew it was terrible. I didn’t even have the app installed on my phone.

But for whatever reason, at four-something in the morning, during what I believed would be the final moments of my life, apparently I needed to know my credit score.

So I stopped.

I downloaded the app.

And I checked.

What I saw made absolutely no sense.

Only hours earlier, I had more than $120,000 in student-loan debt showing on my credit. But sometime around midnight, the loans had suddenly been updated to show as paid in full, with the accounts reflecting on-time payment history.

I refreshed the page.

My credit score jumped dramatically.

I stared at my phone completely confused.

Here’s the strangest part:

My credit score had absolutely nothing to do with why I wanted to die.

Fixing my credit wasn’t going to fix my depression. It wasn’t going to erase my trauma. It wasn’t going to magically make my life easy.

But somehow, in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Because for the first time in a very long time, something inside me said:

Maybe you shouldn’t go yet.

Call it coincidence. Call it timing. Call it the universe. Call it whatever you want.

I called it a sign.

I put everything away.

Then I climbed into bed, wrapped myself around my dog, Dallas, and went to sleep.

I had gone into that night believing my story was over.

Instead, I woke up the next morning.

Fuck “No Hope.”

When I woke up, I called my mom.

I told her what had happened.

And I told her my plans had changed.

I didn’t suddenly wake up cured. My depression didn’t disappear overnight. My trauma wasn’t erased because something strange happened to my credit report.

But something had changed.

I had decided to fight.

Maybe I couldn’t explain why I was still here. But after everything I had survived, I began wondering whether I needed to stop asking “Why is this happening to me?” and start asking:

“What can I do with everything I’ve survived?”

I have lived through things I once believed would destroy me.

And somehow, I’m still here.

There were times when staying alive meant making enormous changes.

And there were times when staying alive meant doing nothing more heroic than putting everything away, climbing into bed and holding Dallas until morning.

Both counted.

That is something I desperately wish I had understood years ago.

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