I used to believe that silence was strength.

In the house I grew up in, emotions weren’t just discouraged — they were seen as a liability. My dad used to say, “Nobody wants to hear you whine. Be a man about it.” So I learned early on to keep my feelings to myself, to smile through pain, to bury anything that made me feel vulnerable. That mindset served me well in some ways — I got through tough jobs, breakups, even a couple of car crashes without flinching. But underneath all that stoicism was a storm I never really dealt with. I didn’t even realize how loud it had gotten until the silence took over.

When I lost my job during the pandemic, it felt like the bottom fell out of my world. I had tied so much of my identity to my career — the title, the paycheck, the sense of being “someone.” Without it, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I went from waking up with purpose to sleeping until noon and pretending I was busy just to avoid conversations. I told people I was “figuring things out,” but the truth was I was unraveling.

At first, it was small things: ignoring texts, skipping meals, staring at the ceiling at night while my mind ran circles around every failure I could remember. But over time, those thoughts got darker. I started to believe the people in my life would be better off without me. I didn’t want to die, not really — I just didn’t want to feel like this anymore.

There was one night, around 2 a.m., when everything hit at once. I was sitting in my apartment, lights off, just… numb. I remember thinking, “This is it. I don’t think I can do this anymore.” That was the first time I ever seriously considered ending my life.

But then, out of nowhere, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from an old friend I hadn’t talked to in months. He wrote: “Hey man, I don’t know why, but you crossed my mind just now. You good?”

That message broke something open in me. It was like someone had reached through the darkness and reminded me I was still here — and that someone saw me. I didn’t respond right away. But I didn’t go through with what I was planning either. I just sat there, holding the phone, crying for the first time in years.

The next morning, I called him. And for the first time in my adult life, I told someone the truth about how I was feeling.

That conversation didn’t fix everything, but it cracked the door open. He encouraged me to see a therapist. I was skeptical at first — the old voices in my head still whispered, “You’re just being dramatic. Toughen up.” But I went anyway. Week by week, I started unpacking the weight I’d been carrying for decades.

I learned that what I was experiencing wasn’t weakness — it was depression. Real, clinical, suffocating depression. And that I wasn’t broken or lazy. I was a human being who had spent a lifetime learning how to suppress pain instead of process it.

At one point during my early recovery, my therapist showed me a photo of a semicolon tattoo and asked if I knew the meaning behind it. I didn’t. She told me about Project Semicolon — how the semicolon is used when a writer could’ve ended the sentence but chose not to. And how that symbol has become a sign of hope and survival for people like me.

That idea stuck with me. I remember going home and reading story after story on Project Semicolon’s website. Stories from people of all ages, backgrounds, and walks of life — and all of them had been in that dark place too. But they had chosen to stay. Just like I had. For the first time, I didn’t feel ashamed of surviving. I felt like maybe I belonged to something bigger — a quiet, powerful community of people who had also chosen to keep writing.

Now, two years later, I won’t pretend everything is perfect. I still have days where the shadows creep in. But I have tools now. I have people I can call. I have a language for what I’m going through. I’m part of a local men’s group that meets every other week to talk about mental health, relationships, and everything we were taught not to talk about.

And I got that semicolon tattoo — not for anyone else, but for me. It’s a reminder that my story didn’t end that night. That I’m still writing it. Still healing. Still here.

If you’re reading this and thinking no one would understand what you’re going through, I want you to know you’re wrong. You’re not alone. There is help. There is hope. And there’s more life ahead than you think.

I’m still here. And I’m proud of that.