There's always a deeper story.

When I was 19, I married my husband, John, and we began our family. I was young and desperate to create the family I had always wanted. After growing up surrounded by abuse, I believed that if I could build a home of my own, I could create the safety, love, and stability I had longed for.

But I brought my own wounds into that marriage, even though I didn’t understand them at the time.

Over the course of our 27-year marriage, there were struggles with addiction. Eventually, the life I had spent nearly three decades building began to unravel. In my late 40s, I found myself thinking about suicide again.

I was exhausted. Brokenhearted. Angry. Confused. I couldn’t see what my life was supposed to look like after everything I thought I knew had fallen apart.

But God met me there.

Through my church family in Fort Myers, I began to find a way forward. I didn’t have all the answers, and I certainly didn’t have everything figured out. But little by little, I began to rebuild my life with Jesus leading the way.

I learned that sometimes starting over isn’t failure. Sometimes starting over is how God saves your life.

Six years later, I met Ryan.

For a while, it felt like the beginning of the love story I had always hoped for.

Ryan and I both came into our relationship carrying baggage. His story included addiction, unaddressed trauma, pornography, and infidelity. There were wounds in him that had never been properly addressed, and over time, those wounds showed up in ways that became increasingly dangerous.

I loved Ryan deeply. I believed in him. I wanted him to heal. I wanted our love to be enough to overcome the things that had followed him for years.

But love cannot heal what someone refuses or is unable to confront.

His anger escalated. In May 2025, I was assaulted by Ryan. Even after that, the behavior continued to escalate. There were increasing concerns involving firearms and alleged criminal behavior.

Eventually, everything came crashing down.

On June 9, 2026, Ryan ended his life.

There are no simple words for what that does to the people left behind.

I have experienced the darkness of suicidal thoughts myself. I know what it feels like to believe that ending your life might be the only way to end your pain. Now I also know what it feels like to be the person left standing after someone you love dies by suicide.

Both experiences have changed me forever.

I have spent much of my life trying to understand trauma, addiction, abuse, betrayal, suicide, and the complicated ways they can become intertwined. I have learned that behind so many behaviors are wounds that were never addressed. But I have also learned that pain does not have to become a person’s destiny.

My story is not a story of perfect choices or a perfect life.

It is a story of survival.

It is a story of brokenness and rebuilding. Of discovering that I could begin again when I thought my life was over. It is a story of learning that asking for help is not weakness, that staying alive can be an act of courage, and that faith can become an anchor when everything around you is falling apart.

Most importantly, it is a story that is still being written.

But I do know this: I am still here.

And because I am still here, I have a responsibility to speak.

I want to talk about suicide before it becomes a tragedy. I want to talk about mental health without shame. I want people to understand that trauma doesn’t simply disappear because we grow older. I want survivors of abuse to know they are not defined by what happened to them. I want families struggling with addiction to know they don’t have to suffer in silence. And I want the person sitting alone tonight, wondering if anyone would notice if they were gone, to know that their story is not finished.

There is still another chapter.

I know because I am living mine.