You have my word

One word can change your life.

If you’re reading this, you’ve attempted suicide at least once

Processed with VSCO with a6 preset

I know this is a bold and brazen statement to make when I know nothing of your life. Even if you haven’t actually tried to kill yourself, I am certain the thought has crossed your mind because light can’t always be seen from the darkness. This is not a judgement; this is for me as much as it is for you.

If you are reading this and have escaped the untimely claws of death then let me tell you I am glad you’ve made it so far. I am glad the blade didn’t cut deep enough, the gas didn’t work fast enough, the words didn’t shatter hard enough, the platform wasn’t high enough, the pills didn’t poison your insides enough, the rope didn’t hold long enough, the water didn’t flood deeply enough, the darkness wasn’t thick enough.

I am glad that you are breathing – even through corrupted lungs. I am glad you get to witness another day. I am glad you are reading this. I am glad you are here and because of that I am not alone. You are not alone either and perhaps that’s the point of it all. Look closely and you’ll notice that the difference between “living” and “loving” is one letter. Perhaps if we focus more on loving each other we’ll do better at living together – less alone.

Loving is a strange concept when it’s a wrestle to even acknowledge you’re worth something, but stick with me for a short while…

See, loving (read: “living”) is not some abstract, esoteric, out-of-touch, emotionally-charged feeling reserved for those lucky enough to find their soulmate. Loving (read: “living”) is for all of us. It’s practical. If loving (read: “living”) doesn’t involve action – a doing word – then it carries no meaning. Ergo, if living doesn’t involve action it carries no meaning.

Loving is easier than we make it out to be; living is easier than we make it out to be. It’s the dying that requires hard work. It’s the giving up and giving in that requires planning and effort but ultimately stops us from moving… stops us from meaning. It’s our resolve to fight for meaning that keeps us in motion; our resolve allows us to love and to live.

The fight for meaning looks different for everyone; it looks different for me and it looks different for you. The fight for meaning sometimes looks like excavating yourself from under the covers after a night of weeping. Sometimes it looks like habitually making a cup of coffee in the morning because this small ritual gives you purpose. Sometimes the fight takes the form of religion, sport, art, sleep, parties, treatment or travel. Sometimes the fight is finding yourself on the doorstep of a friend quietly asking if you can stay a while.

We are all fighting to live – to love. Surely this means we all have something to offer – to give. We have all defied death for a chance to try again – to persevere. If you’re reading this you’ve probably attempted suicide at least once before (physically, mentally or emotionally) but you have the chance now to help someone else or yourself – to be alive.

I see you. I acknowledge you. I salute your life. I am glad you are here. Keep fighting to love, to give, to persevere, to be alive.


I would love to hear your story if you need someone to talk to or just want to share. Feel free to comment below or send me an email directly here. I am here to listen and not to judge. I am here to fight and love with you.

A death march for the living


Wedding vows mean nothing if there is no one at the altar. No amount of flowers, placed on the floor of the church, can make this a wedding if there is no bride.

I am at the altar. I am alone. Ring the bells and let’s call it a funeral. A death march at least shows some movement – at least for the living.

When will my love come? How long must I wait?

I am washed in white – a marble winter in an empty chapel. Grey doves roost on the beams above. Teach me to fly.

This is how I will remember myself:


:: Click :: I am standing in a baby blue crinkled chiffon dress. It has a big golden bow tied around the middle and I am not wearing any shoes. I have been taught to smile even if I am uncomfortable… even if I hate myself… even if I am unhappy.

:: Click :: I am sitting with four of my friends on a hollow log that washed up on the beach. I am four years old and wearing only my white panties – pot belly in full view. The sand is stinging my skin and I have to scrunch my eyes from the burn of the sun. I am already so self-conscious.

:: Click :: I am wearing a cowboy hat, holding two plastic pistols in my hands. My feet are dirty; I’ve been catching bad guys in the back yard all day. I didn’t realise that the real bad guy sleeps in my mother’s bed. I haven’t caught him yet.

:: Click :: I am trying to pee standing up. I am seven years old and I already know that I’ll be hurt less if I am a boy.

:: Click :: I am looking at a naked woman for the first time. I can’t touch her – my friend says he doesn’t want fingerprints on his computer screen.

:: Click :: I am reduced to a naked photo on my friend’s phone. The screen already has his fingerprints on it – I am not the first. I feel beautiful for the first time in a long time. He asked for it.

:: Click :: The night I kissed her breasts, everything suddenly made sense.

:: Click :: I am clutched mid-arm-wrestle like an animal clutched in violent coitus. The boy who sits opposite is older than me. He is surrounded by his friends. My friends are on the playground picking at their lunch without me. I refuse to shave my legs so I’m not one of the girls.

:: Click :: I take a photo of my private parts. The last time I checked I was one of the girls.

:: Click :: I am sitting in Sunday School and while the teacher prays for our snacks, I pray that he will die.

:: Click :: I’m playing house-house wearing my father’s tie. I’m the man. I’m the boss. I’m in charge. I can’t be harmed. I am untouchable. My teddy bear plays the role of my wife and another plays the role of my daughter. They never say a word.

:: Click :: I am beating my friend with a bat because he stood on my wife and drop-kicked my daughter.

:: Click :: My father is beating me in a small washroom just outside the house. I am three years old. He was always careful not to mix business and pleasure.

:: Click :: I live in my own house now and I can sleep with my bedroom door open.

:: Click :: I hope my own children sleep easily. They don’t deserve to have that small safely stolen from them… no one does.

:: Click :: One day I have a son with eyes the colour of dreams. I am a good mother.

:: Click :: Years later and I am reading a bedtime story to a little girl who is already asleep. The hero is slaying the monsters for me.

I am burning and will not stop

  I gave you my words and you burned the pages of my scripture. I gave you the ink, my veins, my pen, this pain, my peace. You left me for ashes and cinder and matches at the start of an inferno. 

I am wild fire. I burn through cities that have never seen light. I burn through hearts that have never known warmth or hurt. I won’t apologise. I won’t look back. I won’t cower. I won’t ask for pardon. I won’t stop. 

I burn, forging my own way – my own form in this fire. I strike while it’s hot. I will brand my own name shaping blades from the furnace. Scathing. Sure. Smooth. Silent. I won’t make a scene. There won’t be a sound when metal collides with bone. 

Here lies the sword and hurt in the fire of burning scripture. I am a pilgrim rewriting my gospel. 


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,322 other followers