September is Suicide Awareness Month, and I keep thinking about how some words, meant to help, can end up breaking us a little more.
I have struggled for a long time with a phrase people often say when the topic of suicide comes up: “Suicide doesn’t end the pain, it only transfers it to the people who love you.” It’s meant to sound encouraging, a gentle reminder to hold on, but if you have ever been in the depths of struggle, you know it doesn’t feel like encouragement at all. It feels like another burden stacked on a back that is already bending.
Imagine a donkey pulling a heavy carriage, wobbling under the load. Then someone throws one more thing on top, and suddenly the donkey is no longer standing on its feet; it’s lifted into the air, helpless, suspended by the weight. That’s what that phrase feels like to someone who is already drowning. It doesn’t ease the pain. It doesn’t soften the load. It just makes the cart heavier, the silence deeper, and the shame louder.
The truth is, people who struggle with suicidal thoughts don’t need another reason to feel guilty. They don’t need to be told they’re selfish, or that they’re passing on suffering. More often than not, they already believe they are a burden. They already believe the world would be better off without them. When we tell them suicide transfers pain, we’re only confirming their worst fears: that they are the problem, that their existence is nothing but a chain of hurt.
What they need instead is presence. Not lectures. Not pressure. Not guilt disguised as encouragement. They need someone willing to sit with them in the dark, without demanding they flip a light switch immediately. They need to hear: “You don’t have to carry this alone. You are loved, even when you can’t feel it yourself. You are not a burden for struggling.” Because sometimes, the most healing words are not advice, they are companionship.
September is Suicide Awareness Month, and it forces us to confront how we speak about suicide, how we treat those who confess to being tired of life, and how quick we are to make their pain about ourselves. Maybe awareness is not just about spotting warning signs; it’s about learning how to hold each other gently. It’s about shifting from statements that add weight to words that share the load.
I came across a suicide note from someone on X (Twitter ), A stranger, someone I never knew, but his words were the kind that sink into your bones.. He wrote, and I quote: “The world is collapsing under its own cruelty. People destroy, exploit, and kill, and still call it progress… I have seen enough to know mercy is rare and empathy is treated like weakness… I hope empathy outgrows indifference, that kindness finds a way to multiply. If nothing else, I’ll go believing in the possibility that the good we’re capable of might one day outweigh the darkness.”
Reading those words stopped me in my tracks. They weren’t bitter, though they carried pain. They weren’t empty, though they came from a place of exhaustion. They were, in some strange way, a gift. A stranger’s goodbye that still pointed to the possibility of goodness. It made me realize that even in their darkest hour, someone could still believe in the potential of light. And maybe that’s what we need more of—not to silence the pain, but to sit with it, to hold it, to choose empathy over indifference.
The reality is that suicide isn’t always loud, and it isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it’s hidden beneath humor, beneath the person who makes everyone laugh the hardest. Sometimes it’s masked by strength, by the one who always shows up for others, never hinting that they need someone to show up for them. We don’t see the donkey wobbling until the cart tips over. And maybe that’s the point of this month. Not to scare people into staying. Not to guilt them with the weight of other people’s grief. But to remind us all that empathy is not weakness. That mercy shouldn’t be rare. That kindness has to multiply if we’re ever going to push back against the kind of loneliness that drives someone to write a goodbye letter to the world.
So if you’ve been carrying a weight you can’t put down, I need you to know this: your life is not measured by how much pain you can endure. You don’t need to justify your existence by staying strong. And even if your mind tells you otherwise, you are not alone in this. Some people will sit with you in the dark, who will help you shoulder the cart, who will remind you that staying isn’t about avoiding guilt; it’s about the possibility of still finding a reason, however small, to keep going.
And to the rest of us, the ones who want to help but don’t always know how: maybe we start by listening more and preaching less. By checking in on each other, not with heavy-handed advice, but with small, tender reminders that we are here. By remembering that suicide awareness isn’t about shame. It’s about compassion. It’s about refusing to let someone believe they are alone in their pain.
If you or someone you love is carrying a weight too heavy to bear, please reach out. In Kenya, Befrienders Kenya (+254 722 178 177), the Chiromo Hospital Group (0800 220 000), and the Kenya Red Cross (1199) are lifelines. And if you are elsewhere, there are hotlines and communities ready to listen.
Suicide does not make someone weak. It makes them human, fighting battles unseen. And if September is good for anything, let it be a reminder that we don’t end pain by silence, by guilt, or by shame. We end it by standing beside each other, by lifting the cart together, by refusing to let the weight crush the ones we love.
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