The Light She Left Behind

 ⚠️ Trigger Warning: Suicide, Grief, Mental Health

This post discusses topics related to suicide and mental health that may be triggering for some readers. If you're struggling, you're not alone. Please consider reaching out:

Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988

BetterHelp: www.betterhelp.com – Online therapy resource (note: cost may vary)

In Memory of "Ann" – A Light I’ll Never Forget

Before I begin, I want to make it clear that “Ann” is a pseudonym I’ve chosen to protect my friend's identity. I’m writing this post for her, for me, and for anyone who has ever carried a quiet grief they didn’t know how to voice.

Ann was one of my closest friends in high school. We met because our moms worked together and thought we’d get along due to the similar struggles we were both facing in school—and in life. They weren’t wrong. That friendship turned into one of the most meaningful bonds I’ve ever known.

Ann was the kind of person who made you feel seen. I never had to explain myself around her. Being in her presence felt like breathing easier. She had this quiet radiance, a beam of light that managed to reach me even in my darkest moments.

The Memories I Hold Close

I still remember the very first time we met—how innocent and casual it all seemed at the start. I had no idea it would blossom into such a deep connection. Later on, once I got my license, I’d drive over to her house and we’d talk for hours. About boys. About life. About our pain, our dreams, the world. No topic was off limits.

She loved animals, especially horses. I remember watching her brush them and talk to them like they were old friends. Her dream was to become a veterinarian. It wasn’t just a goal; it was in her nature. That kind of compassion lived in her bones.

A Rift I’ll Always Regret

One of the hardest things to talk about is that we had a falling out before she passed. It was the kind of argument teenage girls have—over something stupid, over boys, over pride. And I let it push her away.

I tried to reach out after that. I sent messages, but they were never seen. She had already started slipping into that dark space, and I didn’t know how far she’d gone. I remember a day when I had to ask my work supervisor for a break so I could sit in the cafeteria and talk to the police on the phone—I was trying to help find her after she went dark and sent worrying messages. That’s how much I still cared. That’s how hard I tried, even if she never saw it.

The Moment Everything Changed

I was 19 when I got the call.

I was at my friend’s house, chatting with her parents, when my mom rang me. She asked if I was sitting down, and I thought it was just a casual check-in. But then she told me Ann had taken her own life.

The world stopped. My heart dropped into my stomach. I don’t even remember what else was said before the call ended. I just remember sitting there, stunned, until the tears finally came. I choked up and told my friend what had happened. She held me while I cried for hours. I’ll never forget that support—it kept me grounded when I felt like I was falling.

Grief Isn’t a Line You Cross—It’s a Place You Learn to Live

Since that day in 2022, I’ve felt everything. Anger. Sadness. Frustration. Guilt. Comparison. Envy. Bargaining. Numbness. Sometimes all at once. Sometimes nothing at all.

I’ve come to realize something: grief isn’t something you get over. It’s something you grow around. The pain doesn’t shrink, but you learn how to carry it.

Losing Ann changed the way I view relationships. I don’t take my friends for granted anymore. Every time I have an argument with someone I love, there’s this voice in the back of my head whispering, what if this is the last time you speak to them? That kind of trauma lingers.

One of the biggest lessons Ann left me with is this: if you feel something pulling at you—an urge to reach out, an itch in your bones that something isn’t right—don’t ignore it. Back then, I didn’t know how to listen to myself. I brushed it off as anxiety. I wish I had leaned into it more.

If I Could Say One More Thing to Her…

If there’s anything I wish Ann could hear now, it’s this:

"You are never alone, babygirl. I know your life felt heavy, but it wasn’t the end of your story. There are people who felt exactly like you did—who do feel it—and they’re still here. Life is like a rollercoaster. It’s hard and messy and it hurts. But the highs are worth holding onto, even when the lows feel like they’re never going to end. I love you. I always have. I think about you every damn day. And I hope I’m making you proud. You’re still part of my story, forever.

To Anyone Reading This

Please speak up about what you’re going through. Even if you feel like no one gets it—someone out there does. There’s always someone who will listen.

Check in on your friends. Don’t wait until it’s too late to say the things you’ve been holding in.

If you're struggling and need someone to talk to, here are some resources I personally recommend:

Text HOME to 741741 – Crisis Text Line

Call or text 988 – Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

BetterHelp – For those who want therapy online (check their pricing before committing, as it may vary)

And if you can’t access therapy right now, that’s okay. Use the hotlines. They exist for a reason.

Final Thoughts

This post was hard to write. But holding it in has been even harder. Sharing this is part of my own healing—one imperfect step at a time.

Ann, your light is still here, in all the ways you shaped my heart. Thank you for the time we had. I will carry you with me, always.

Love,
Madison
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