I Woke Up Again: Surviving When You Don’t Want To.

2009

I remember laying in bed, the alarm buzzing obnoxiously in the background as I opened my eyes and thought, “Really, God? Again?”

The night before, I had made a bargain with Him as I cried myself to sleep, that I would fall asleep and never wake up, a stroke, a brain aneurysm, anything peaceful. Apparently, He hadn’t kept up with His part of the bargain, because the sun was shining in my eyes and the puffy feeling in my face from ugly crying was proof that this was not heaven.

I rolled off my mattress, onto the floor of the basement I was staying in and stood up. As I looked around, I felt the crush weight of despair in my chest. I was 31, and my entire life felt fucked. Divorced, in the middle of a custody fight, broke, struggling through bankruptcy with no direction, purpose, or hope. I had recently been hospitalized due to suicidal ideations, and even as I stood there trying to soak in the sun from the tiny basement window, thoughts ran through my mind: “Was this life worth it at all at this point?”

Everything felt so broken.

In truth, the only thing keeping me on this earth was the recent realization that if I completed suicide, my family and especially my children would be dealing with my choice for their entire lives. I had concluded that even if all I did was survive each day, at least my choice to end my life wouldn’t become another burden for them to carry. I had messed up everything else, but I could still give them that. Each day became about dragging myself from one sunrise to the next, just surviving, just holding on.

However, I had decided that if God should so choose to take me out, that would be a different scenario, and I prayed each day for that to happen. Perhaps a fatal car accident on the way home, God?

But each morning I continued to wake up. What a fucking pain in the ass.

But here’s the truth I want you to hear, yes, you, feeling like tomorrow isn’t worth it, like every step is pointless and heavy: I see you. I feel you. I know that weight in your chest that makes even breathing feel like a hopeless endeavour.

I’m not going to lie to you and say it’s easy. Life doesn’t suddenly become perfect. But surviving each day, even when it feels impossible, builds a strength you can’t see yet. A resilience you can’t measure. That tiny spark that keeps you breathing, that is your victory.

Tomorrow doesn’t have to be fixed. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to make it through this moment. One breath. One heartbeat. One small choice to keep going.

That is enough.

You have survived storms no one else can see. You have carried yourself through nights that felt endless. That means there is still strength inside you. There is still life inside you. There is still hope, even if it’s microscopic, even if it feels invisible.

This morning, I woke up to my partner’s soft kiss and a whispered good morning as he slipped out the door to go to work. I snuggled into our king-sized bed, my favorite sheets curling around me like a hug, and inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of our home. The world felt quiet, safe, almost gentle.

But reality still waits just beyond the warmth, the struggles, the worries, the weight of everything still presses down. Nothing is perfect, not even close. And yet, here I am, breathing, awake, still moving forward. Surviving those dark days gave me the strength to wake up today, and that waking up, right now, is proof. Proof that even when the weight feels unbearable, there is something to hold onto. Something worth being here for.

And one day, you will wake up and the morning light will hit your skin differently. Maybe there’s warmth on your face. Maybe there’s the smell of coffee, or the softness of your bed. Maybe there’s someone there waiting to greet the day.

And you still have that ‘maybe’ to hang onto.

Hold on to that. Just hold on. One breath. One heartbeat. One step forward. That is all it takes for now.

And yes… you can do this. You really can. I promise you.

One day at a time.

And if the dark gets too dark, reach out.

There are people ready to listen, to see you, to hold the weight with you:

• Alberta Suicide Crisis Line: 1‑800‑784‑2433 (available 24/7)

• Talk Suicide Canada: 1‑833‑456‑4566

• Text Support: Text HOME to 686868 (Crisis Text Line, 24/7)

You deserve to be heard. You deserve another day. You deserve help, connection, and a chance to see the light, even if it’s just a tiny flicker right now.