Still Here, Still Rising: My Journey Toward Hope

A story of surviving the darkest season, learning to live again, and finding reasons to keep choosing life.

Even after the darkest night, God can still bring light to the horizon and remind us that a new morning is possible.

Content note: This post discusses depression, suicide, and recovery. Please read with care, and if this topic feels heavy for you, pause and reach out to someone you trust.

One year ago, I almost became a memory. I do not write those words lightly. They still hurt to say, but they are the truth. I survived a moment I once thought would be the end of my story, and today, during Suicide Awareness Month, I am choosing to share that truth because someone else may need to know that survival, restoration, and hope are still possible.

Hi, I’m Stefannie. ❤️ This month marks one year since I was diagnosed with Persistent Depressive Disorder. It also marks one year since I began to understand how heavy life can become when you are silently trying to survive while still showing up for everyone around you.

I am sharing this not because it is easy to revisit, but because silence can make pain feel even heavier. If you are reading this while carrying a quiet battle of your own, I want you to know this before you read anything else: you are not alone, and your story is not over.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

For a long time, I thought being strong meant staying quiet. I thought strength meant pushing through, smiling when I was tired, showing up even when I felt empty, and never letting people see how badly I was hurting. I told myself that other people had it worse, that I should be grateful, that I had responsibilities, and that I did not have the right to fall apart.

But pain does not disappear just because we hide it. Depression does not become lighter simply because we keep working, parenting, paying bills, and pretending we are okay. Sometimes the people who look the strongest are the ones who are carrying the most.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

September 2024 was the darkest season of my life.

At that time, I was working as an Escalation Advisor and carrying most of the responsibilities for my family. My partner had been without work for almost two years, and I was the only one earning. I was working, caring for my children, managing our home, and trying to make sure we had enough for our needs.

Every day, I gave everything I had. But the truth was, I was tired in a way that sleep could not fix. The pressure, stress, fear, and exhaustion became too much for me to carry. I kept trying to be strong for everyone else, but inside, I was breaking.

I remember feeling like I had to hold everything together because if I stopped, everything around me might fall apart. There were days when I woke up already exhausted, days when I felt like I was moving through life with a weight on my chest. I would go through the motions, but inside I felt far away from myself. I was present physically, but emotionally and mentally, I was barely hanging on.

What made it even harder was the guilt. I felt guilty for being tired, for needing rest, and for struggling when my family depended on me. I kept asking myself why I could not be stronger, why I could not handle things better, and why I felt so broken when I was trying so hard.

One day, in the middle of my depression, everything went dark. I attempted to end my life by taking an overdose of medication. In that moment, I thought it was going to be the end of me.

But God did not allow that to be the end of my story. I survived, and the words of Psalm 118:17 now feel personal to me: “I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord.”

Looking back now, I realize that surviving was only the beginning. At first, I thought survival would feel like relief, but it was more complicated than that. I was grateful to be alive, but I was also scared, ashamed, and unsure of what came next. I had to face the reality of what had happened, and I had to begin the hard work of understanding the pain that brought me to that point.

There is a part of depression that is hard to explain unless you have lived through it. It can make you feel like a burden even when you are loved. It can make you feel alone even when people are nearby. It can convince you that there is no way out, even when help exists. That is why awareness matters. That is why conversations about mental health and suicide prevention matter. Silence can make people feel trapped, but honesty can open a door.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” — Psalm 23:4

Surviving did not mean everything became okay overnight. In many ways, life became even harder. I lost my job because I could no longer function the way I used to. I was absent often, struggled to focus, and could not give my best at work no matter how much I wanted to.

I felt guilty. I felt like I had disappointed the people who believed in me. I will always be grateful to my manager and seniors, Cristela, Joann, and Frank, who gave me chances, showed understanding, and stood by me during one of the hardest chapters of my life. Their patience and kindness meant more than they may ever know.

Still, despite the support I received, I could not do my job properly, and eventually, I was terminated. That loss hurt deeply, but it also became a turning point. It was the moment I realized I could not keep pouring from an empty cup. I needed to take care of myself first.

Losing my job was painful because my work had been part of my identity. I wanted to do well. I wanted to be dependable. I wanted to prove that I could still show up the way I used to. But my mind and body were telling me something I had ignored for too long: I needed help, rest, and care. I could not keep measuring my worth by how much I could endure.

So, I started therapy. I began working on myself and slowly learning how to face the pain, the pressure, and the emotions I had been carrying for so long. Recovery was not instant, and it was not perfect. There were still difficult days, moments of doubt, and times when I had to remind myself to keep going.

Therapy became a place where I could finally put down some of what I had been carrying. It gave me space to say things out loud that I had kept inside for too long. It helped me understand that what happened to me was not weakness. It was not failure. It was a sign that I had been hurting deeply and needed care.

Sometimes healing begins in the quiet places — where we pause, breathe, pray, and let God meet us in our brokenness.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

That season taught me that progress is not always loud or obvious. Sometimes progress is getting out of bed when everything feels heavy. Sometimes it is attending one therapy session. Sometimes it is being honest with one person. Sometimes it is crying, resting, praying, breathing, and trying again the next day.

I also had to learn how to be kinder to myself. For so long, I treated myself like someone who had to keep going no matter what. I expected myself to carry everything without breaking. But recovery required me to understand that I am human. I have limits. I need support. I deserve compassion, not just from others, but from myself too.

But little by little, I began to breathe again. I began to see that moving forward is not about pretending the pain never happened. It is learning to live beyond it. It is choosing to rise, even slowly. It is giving yourself grace when the journey feels heavy. It is believing that even after the darkest season, there can still be light.

Every step forward matters, even the small ones. The path may feel uncertain, but hope can still shine through.

Resilience does not mean I never struggled again. It does not mean I woke up one day and everything was magically better. Resilience means I kept choosing to continue, even when the process was slow. It means I allowed myself to receive help. It means I learned that asking for support is not a burden; it is an act of courage.

There are still days when I have to remind myself how far I have come. There are still moments when the past feels close, when fear or sadness tries to return. But now I know that difficult days do not erase my progress. A hard day is not the same as a hopeless life. A setback is not the end of the story.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” — Psalm 30:5

I am learning to celebrate small victories: the days I choose rest instead of guilt, the moments I speak kindly to myself, the times I ask for help instead of pretending I am fine, and the mornings when I wake up and decide to keep going. Those small victories matter. They are proof that growth is happening, even when it feels slow.

One year later, I am still here. I am still rising. I am still learning. I am still choosing life, one day at a time. And I am proud of myself for staying.

If you are struggling right now, please do not suffer in silence. Talk to someone you trust. Seek help. Reach out. Your pain is real, but so is hope. Your life matters more than you may be able to see in this moment.

If my story reaches someone who is quietly struggling, I hope it reminds you that your life is precious. You do not have to have everything figured out today. You do not have to be okay all at once. You only have to take the next safe step. Tell someone. Reach out. Let others help carry what has become too heavy to hold alone.

To the person who feels like a burden, you are not. To the person who feels tired of fighting, please stay. To the person who thinks no one would understand, there are people who want to listen, help, and walk with you through this. You are worthy of care. You are worthy of restoration. You are worthy of another tomorrow.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” — Jeremiah 29:11

One year ago, I did not know if I would be here to tell this story. Today, I am here, and I am choosing to use my voice. I am choosing honesty over silence. I am choosing hope over shame. I am choosing life, one day at a time.

This Suicide Awareness Month, I want my story to be a reminder that depression can be heavy, but it does not have to be carried alone. There is help. There is hope. There is still purpose. And even when life feels impossible, there is still a reason to hold on.

When I look back on everything I survived, my heart still trembles. There are moments I cannot fully explain, moments when I know God’s grace kept me here. When I had no strength left, He carried me. When I thought my story was ending, God was still writing a testimony of mercy, purpose, and life.

I am not here because I was strong every day. I am here because God met me in my weakness, stayed with me in my brokenness, and gave me another chance to breathe, to love my children, to rebuild my life, and to believe that my story was not finished. I still have tender places. I still have prayers that come with tears. But today, those tears no longer mean defeat. They remind me that joy can come in the morning and that God is still restoring what pain tried to take.

So, if you are walking through your own valley right now, I pray you hold on. I pray you let someone know where you are. I pray you remember that darkness can feel endless, but it is not stronger than the light of God’s love. You are not forgotten. You are not beyond help. You are not too broken to be restored. There is still hope for you. There is still grace for you. There is still life ahead of you, and I pray you stay to see it.

You are not alone. Your life has purpose, your story is not over, and help is always worth reaching for.

If you or someone you know is in immediate danger or thinking about suicide, please call or text 988 in the U.S. and Canada to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, or contact local emergency services or a crisis hotline in your area right away.

A special note from Jo Keirns:

Stefannie, thank you for trusting me and allowing me to help you share your story. I know this was not easy to put into words, and I do not take lightly the courage it took for you to open your heart in this way. Your willingness to be honest about one of the darkest experiences of your life may become the very light someone else needs to keep going.

I am so proud of you—not only for surviving, but for continuing to rise, to seek help, to love your children, and to let God keep working in your life. As I told you, God still needed your light in this world. He was not done with you then, and He is not done writing your story now.

My prayer is that anyone who reads your story will see hope through your honesty, strength through your vulnerability, and God’s grace through your life. Thank you for letting me stand beside you as you turned pain into purpose. Your story matters, your voice matters, and your light is still shining.