Fourteen Years Later

Kyleigh Leist

WhiteFlag Marketing Director

TW: Suicide

Fourteen years ago I did something I never thought I’d survive. That day—its anniversary, the quiet lead-up to it, the flash of memories—still lands heavy. Some years I can hold the weight and keep walking. Other years it knocks me flat. Healing hasn’t been a neat line; it’s been a mess of stitches and scabs and unexpected sunlight. On the cusp of this anniversary I wanted a list of reminders I can actually use—truths that steady me when the past feels too loud. Fourteen things I need to remind myself. And maybe, just maybe, you reading this may need some of these reminders too.

1. Surviving isn’t proof I failed. I spent years feeling ashamed for still being here. Surviving is not proof I failed at anything—it’s evidence I kept going. That has power.

   
   

2. Pain is real and it isn’t the whole of me. My pain feels infinite some days. Remind myself: pain is a piece, not my identity. There is more to me than what hurts right now.

   
   

3. It’s okay to carry the scars and still be proud of my progress. Scars are not apologies. They are chapters. I can honor the growth without pretending every day is easy.

   
   

4. Feelings are visitors, not dictators. Everything I feel is valid. None of it has the final say. Emotions move through me; they don’t move me out of existence.

   
   

5. Asking for help is the bravest, most ordinary thing I can do. Calling someone, texting the words “I'm not okay today,” showing up for an appointment, going back into therapy—those are not weak moves. They are practical life-saving actions.

   
   

6. Triggers are expected, not failures. Things will remind me of that night, of what I did, of words I wish I could unhear. That’s not me slipping backward—it’s trauma doing its work. I can notice, breathe, and use a tool or reach out.

   
   

7. I’m allowed to protect my peace. I need to remind myself that a lot... so I'll say it again. I'm allowed to protect my peace. Saying no, stepping away from a conversation, muting a person online—these are boundaries, not punishments. Boundaries keep me alive.

   
   

8. Small things matter. Celebrate them. Getting dressed. Making coffee. Actually remembering to drink water. Texting a friend back. These are wins. They add up. They prove the day belonged to me too.

   
   

9. Medication, therapy, rest—these are maintenance, not weakness. Taking care of my brain is as routine as brushing my teeth. Neither glamorous nor shameful—just necessary.

   
   

10. I can hold grief and gratitude at the same time. I can grieve what I lost and still be grateful for what I have. Both truths can exist in my chest without canceling each other out.

    
    

11. I am not a burden for needing support. When I need help, it often means someone who cares gets to show up for me. That is human and beautiful—not a weight I must hide.

    
    

12. My story matters because it reaches someone else. Even if it is just one. There are people who need to hear that survival isn’t tidy. That I haven't "overcame" my suicide attempts. If one person keeps breathing because I shared honestly, then the cost of the telling is worth it.

    
    

13. Plans for comfort are practical, not dramatic. A plan—people to call, places to go, small actions to take—helps anchor me. Making it doesn’t mean I will use it, but not having one makes the dark louder.

    
    

14. I get to keep changing my mind about what healing looks like. Sometimes healing looks like a podcast, sometimes like a day rotting in bed. Or not taking my phone off of Do Not Disturb. Sometimes it’s a doctor’s appointment; sometimes it’s a long walk on the beach. I don’t owe anyone consistency except myself.

If you’re reading this because an anniversary like mine is coming up for you: you don’t have to perform strength. You don’t have to paste on a smile or prove anything to anyone. Remind yourself of the small stuff that keeps you human. Make plans. Talk to someone you trust. Go out. Celebrate you. And if you can, forgive yourself for every imperfect part of surviving.

Fourteen years is a long time to carry anything. I’m still carrying parts of that night—the 'plan', the texts I sent, the memories that still trigger me. But I am also carrying other things now: friendships that saved me when I didn’t know how to save myself, work I believe in, silly inside jokes, calm mornings that smell like coffee and possibility. Both are true. Both are mine.

I’ll read this on September 26th. Maybe I’ll cry. Maybe I’ll write a note to myself. Maybe I’ll sleep through the night for the first time in weeks. Whatever happens, I’ll remember these things are mine to use when I need them.

— Kyleigh

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