It’s been eleven years now. Over a decade since I lost my younger brother, Travis, to suicide—and yet, every June, the pain returns like clockwork. It doesn’t scream anymore; it sits quietly in a corner of my heart, a familiar ache I’ve learned to carry. I still can see the exact place I was standing—right in front of my San Diego bedroom window—when the phone rang and changed everything. The disbelief came first, then the hollow silence, then the flood of grief that left me numb. What made it harder was that Travis seemed content with his life. We would talk over the phone about the Bible, about life, about all the random things brothers share. I never imagined those conversations would be our last. But in the years since, that ache has become more than just pain. It’s become a mantle I carry—a compassion now to speak to others who feel lost in the same darkness he once did.
If you're reading this and are hiding a silent pain behind your smile, I want to speak straight to your heart. Maybe you laughed with someone today, but deep down, you’re barely hanging on. Perhaps you’ve already made a plan to end it all—or maybe you’re just exhausted from always feeling as if you don’t matter. I see you. I get it. I’ve fought through my own shadows and wrestled with questions that didn’t have easy answers. But friend, please hear this: you are not here by accident. Your life is not a mistake. You are not some burden the world has to carry—you are someone uniquely and deeply treasured. No amount of pain can erase your worth. And whether you feel it right now or not, this world would lose something sacred if you weren’t in it.
The heartbreaking truth is that suicide doesn’t end the pain—it passes it on. It doesn’t erase the suffering; it multiplies it in the hearts of those who loved you. Even if you feel utterly alone right now, I promise you—someone loves you. I didn’t fully grasp how much I needed to hear my brother’s voice until the day I never could again. His silence has echoed through every birthday, Christmas, and every random phone call that should’ve been him. And if no one else has told you this lately, let me be the one to say it: your life matters. Far more than you may ever understand. You are irreplaceable.
Sometimes, the weight in our struggles and the gnawing piercing in our hearts becomes so heavy that it clouds everything—our vision, our hope, even our will to go on. Pain can feel like a permanent dark fog, as if the storm will never end. But storms do pass. I’ve watched broken people crawl through the wreckage of loss and still rise—not untouched, but transformed. Stronger. Gentler. Wiser. I know because I’m one of them. That’s part of why I wrote my story—and shared pieces of Travis’s—in my book Confessions. It was never just a book; it was a lifeline for those stumbling through the dark. So, if you’re in a dark valley right now, don’t make a permanent decision in a temporary place. Your emotions are real, yes—but they don’t tell the whole story. And this moment, no matter how crushing, is not the end of yours.
Satan would desire nothing more than to convince you that ending your life is the only escape. But it’s a deadly lie. Suicide is a tragic, fatal choice to something that can be healed. You are far too precious to fall for that deception. As long as you have breath, you have a purpose. You may not see it, but even your struggles are being used in God’s greater story of your life—a story God is still writing. Maybe the page you’re on feels empty or heavy, but the Author hasn’t put down His pen. He’s not finished with you. And neither am I. If you're reading this and wondering if anyone truly cares, let me say it clearly: I care for you. That's the whole reason I wrote these words--for you.
Please—don’t carry this alone. Reach out. Say something to anyone. You weren’t meant to walk through this nothingness in silence. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. And if you feel like you can’t speak to me, there are others—a friend, a pastor, a counselor, or a hotline—waiting to listen and ready to care. You don’t have to explain it all perfectly. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just take the next breath. Just make it through this moment. That’s how healing begins—one step, one honest conversation, one act of courage at a time.
I’m not speaking as someone standing above you but beside you. I’ve faced my own seasons of heartbreak. I’ve watched pain try to bury people I love. I’ve lain awake in the void, asking God where He was. And I’ve also seen Him come through—in ways I never expected—with healing, with restoration, and yes, even with joy. If He can do it for me, and if He can do it for others, then He will do it for you too. Let Christ help. Let God meet you right where you are.
Let someone in. Even if it’s just a crack in the door of your heart — let the light start to seep back in. Those places that feel numb and forgotten? They don’t have to stay that way.
You are not forgotten. You are not beyond help. You are not a mistake. You are loved — deeply, eternally — by God, who sees every part of you and still calls you valuable. If your heart ever forgets the truth, come back to these words. Let them remind you:
There’s still a reason to stay.
If this reached a tender place in you, and you want to know more about my story and the journey I’ve walked, losing my brother to suicide, I share it all in Confessions: A Memoir of Hope for the Suffering. You can find it at www.MissionFrontier.info/confessions, along with other resources to encourage and equip you through the pain.
You don’t have to do this alone. I’m still here. And I want to walk this road with you.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
If you're reading this and are hiding a silent pain behind your smile, I want to speak straight to your heart. Maybe you laughed with someone today, but deep down, you’re barely hanging on. Perhaps you’ve already made a plan to end it all—or maybe you’re just exhausted from always feeling as if you don’t matter. I see you. I get it. I’ve fought through my own shadows and wrestled with questions that didn’t have easy answers. But friend, please hear this: you are not here by accident. Your life is not a mistake. You are not some burden the world has to carry—you are someone uniquely and deeply treasured. No amount of pain can erase your worth. And whether you feel it right now or not, this world would lose something sacred if you weren’t in it.
The heartbreaking truth is that suicide doesn’t end the pain—it passes it on. It doesn’t erase the suffering; it multiplies it in the hearts of those who loved you. Even if you feel utterly alone right now, I promise you—someone loves you. I didn’t fully grasp how much I needed to hear my brother’s voice until the day I never could again. His silence has echoed through every birthday, Christmas, and every random phone call that should’ve been him. And if no one else has told you this lately, let me be the one to say it: your life matters. Far more than you may ever understand. You are irreplaceable.
Sometimes, the weight in our struggles and the gnawing piercing in our hearts becomes so heavy that it clouds everything—our vision, our hope, even our will to go on. Pain can feel like a permanent dark fog, as if the storm will never end. But storms do pass. I’ve watched broken people crawl through the wreckage of loss and still rise—not untouched, but transformed. Stronger. Gentler. Wiser. I know because I’m one of them. That’s part of why I wrote my story—and shared pieces of Travis’s—in my book Confessions. It was never just a book; it was a lifeline for those stumbling through the dark. So, if you’re in a dark valley right now, don’t make a permanent decision in a temporary place. Your emotions are real, yes—but they don’t tell the whole story. And this moment, no matter how crushing, is not the end of yours.
Satan would desire nothing more than to convince you that ending your life is the only escape. But it’s a deadly lie. Suicide is a tragic, fatal choice to something that can be healed. You are far too precious to fall for that deception. As long as you have breath, you have a purpose. You may not see it, but even your struggles are being used in God’s greater story of your life—a story God is still writing. Maybe the page you’re on feels empty or heavy, but the Author hasn’t put down His pen. He’s not finished with you. And neither am I. If you're reading this and wondering if anyone truly cares, let me say it clearly: I care for you. That's the whole reason I wrote these words--for you.
Please—don’t carry this alone. Reach out. Say something to anyone. You weren’t meant to walk through this nothingness in silence. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. And if you feel like you can’t speak to me, there are others—a friend, a pastor, a counselor, or a hotline—waiting to listen and ready to care. You don’t have to explain it all perfectly. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Just take the next breath. Just make it through this moment. That’s how healing begins—one step, one honest conversation, one act of courage at a time.
I’m not speaking as someone standing above you but beside you. I’ve faced my own seasons of heartbreak. I’ve watched pain try to bury people I love. I’ve lain awake in the void, asking God where He was. And I’ve also seen Him come through—in ways I never expected—with healing, with restoration, and yes, even with joy. If He can do it for me, and if He can do it for others, then He will do it for you too. Let Christ help. Let God meet you right where you are.
Let someone in. Even if it’s just a crack in the door of your heart — let the light start to seep back in. Those places that feel numb and forgotten? They don’t have to stay that way.
You are not forgotten. You are not beyond help. You are not a mistake. You are loved — deeply, eternally — by God, who sees every part of you and still calls you valuable. If your heart ever forgets the truth, come back to these words. Let them remind you:
There’s still a reason to stay.
If this reached a tender place in you, and you want to know more about my story and the journey I’ve walked, losing my brother to suicide, I share it all in Confessions: A Memoir of Hope for the Suffering. You can find it at www.MissionFrontier.info/confessions, along with other resources to encourage and equip you through the pain.
You don’t have to do this alone. I’m still here. And I want to walk this road with you.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
