On the Edge of Birth and the Other Side

"On the edge of silence, where despair once called my name, the story rose up to save me — and carried me into the light."

Today is my birthday. It is also World Suicide Prevention Day.

For me, those two moments will always be connected.

I have stood at the crossroads of wanting to end my life — not once, but several times. That was in the past. Each time, when I had lost all hope, I experienced what I can only call a spiritual intervention. A voice, a presence, a knowing — something greater than me broke through the silence and gave me a reason to keep breathing.

Among those interventions was a simple yet life-altering invitation: write your story. What I thought would be a lesson in healing turned out to be much more. Writing became a way of listening in between the stories of each trauma and each loss. In those spaces, the truth of my journey revealed itself — sometimes confirmed by synchronicities, sometimes by the right people showing up at exactly the right time.

It wasn’t easy. Surviving brain injury meant my memory, language, and coherence were fractured. Even writing felt impossible. But through that impossibility came a new way — beyond remembering, beyond reading and writing in the usual sense. Sharing my story not only gave me a path for healing, it magnified truths that had been hidden and revealed the deeper purpose of why I am still here.

Tonight, I share this as a lived truth, not as a polished message:
Sometimes, the story you think you’ve lost is the very story that will save you.

And I dedicate this to Lillian Marie (9/3/1999 – 8/9/2022).
Her memory reminds me that hope may be fragile, yet it rises again like dawn from the longest night.

This reflection is part of a larger journey I am writing into my upcoming memoir, where I will share more of these edges and the interventions that changed everything.

Mental health is not only about the mind — it is the deep ache of the soul when pain and trauma have nowhere to go. Healing does not arrive all at once. It comes in fragments: a breath, a word, a moment of light in the dark. For me, it was never about escaping the pain, but about finding ways to live through it. That is what writing, silence, and nature gave me — a path to hold the suffering without being consumed by it.

In Silence I Stare

In silence, I stare at the weight of the night,

searching for something, a flicker of light.

The world feels so heavy, my heart pulled thin,

yet a whisper reminds me: begin again.

I have walked through the shadows where hope lost its name,

where silence felt louder than sorrow or shame.

But even in darkness, the softest word came:

Your story’s not over. It’s calling your name.

So I gather the thread, though fragile, it’s true,

and follow its pull to the promise of new.

For dawn always rises, and so will I too—

a lantern of living, with light shining through.

Spill out the sorrow, let the hurt find its sound,

Truth holds its power when it’s spoken, not bound.

One breath, one word, is the place you can start—

a crack in the silence, a light in the heart.

Deborah September 10, 2025

✏️ Journal

When the weight of silence feels too much, let your pain find a place outside of you.

Take a blank page and write without rules: not for perfection, not for anyone else — just to spill what presses inside. Let your words be messy, jagged, unfinished. Let them be rain, thunder, or broken glass. Every mark on the page is a release.

If words won’t come, step into nature. Notice one thing — the color of a leaf, the sound of water, the shape of clouds. Sketch it. Describe it. Breathe with it. Creation reminds us that change is possible.

Begin here:

- Write one truth you have never spoken aloud.
- Draw one symbol from nature that mirrors how you feel.
- Ask yourself: If my pain could speak in color or sound, what would it say?

This is not about fixing the pain. It’s about giving it voice, shape, and space — so light has room to enter.

🌸 Closing Note

Thank you for sharing this moment with me. I hope that these words, this poem, and this journal invitation remind you that your story still matters. If you are standing in silence, know that silence is not the end — it is a space where new light can enter.

Keep breathing, keep creating, and trust that even the smallest step forward is part of your healing.

with heartfelt compassion

Deborah