They Walk Among Us

Sometimes, survival is the easy part.

Pass us on the street. We work with them. Hang out with them. They heal us. Counsel us. Love us.

Each carries a story you may never hear.

Some curl up in it and hang on for life. Others wear it like a second skin. Most bury it deep—because the world rarely stops to ask, Are you okay?

They’re survivor’s. I’m one of them. The Face of Survival

No, you wouldn’t know it to look at me.

I don’t have SURVIVOR tattooed on my forehead. I function. I laugh. I show up. I look like someone who has it together—whatever that means.

Some days, I’m barely holding on.

Ever felt intense loneliness while surrounded by love? Ever woken up with every cell in your body begging you not to get out of bed?

Yeah. That.

People think survival is a moment—one crisis, one miracle, one fight. But survival can be slow. Cumulative. Quiet.

It stretches over decades. It doesn’t always look like strength. Sometimes it looks like functioning with a smile. Sometimes it looks like disappearing for a while. Sometimes it just looks like you.

I’m a three-time survivor.

I tried to take my life many years ago. I survived a stroke that left me with permanent brain damage. I had cancer that took half a kidney—and I’m still hoping they got it all.

Others didn’t survive those things. But I did.

In between those markers were jobs, marriage, motherhood, grief, healing, breaking, and rebuilding.

Survival isn’t a chapter. It’s a thread.

Some days, I feel like I’ve used up all my get-out-of-jail-free cards.

The night I read my CT scan results saying I had cancer, my husband was away on drill duty. The house was quiet. I wasn’t.

Everything in me unraveled. All I could think was: What’s going to happen to my dogs?

Not who will miss me, Not what will my family do without me.

Just… my dogs.

Funny, the things that tether us to life. Sometimes it’s not love or purpose or faith. Sometimes it’s absurd, ordinary attachments—like a little face that greets you at the door.

Survival threads through life in strange ways. Years earlier, lying on a bed in the emergency room, another thread nearly snapped. When the doctor said I'd had a stroke—that was the most terrified I'd ever been.

I’d always cherished words—my ability to weave them into something meaningful. Now, how could I say my wedding vows if even three simple words were beyond reach?

I’ve wept for those I’ve never met—those who ended their lives—because I remember too well that place in their head.

That black hole of despair. The kind that collapses everything—sound, reason, hope. The kind that leaves your mind screaming for relief, for erasure, for nothingness.

When I hear someone didn’t make it out, I don’t grieve for them. I grieve with them. Because I know the gut-wrenching despair of simply wanting to stop existing.

So why me?

Why did I get to stand at my daughter’s wedding? Why did I get to watch my stepson thrive, or see the love in my husband’s eye? Why do I get to live when others don't?

That’s the survivors guilt I carry—heavy and unspoken. It’s not empowering. It’s not luck; it feels like debt. A debt you can never repay. I don’t feel fortunate; I feel responsible. I wonder if I’m doing enough to deserve these extra years—if I’ve earned them, if I ever could.

Maybe that’s why I write.

Because somewhere out there, someone’s carrying the same weight. Maybe they’re functioning. Maybe they’re hiding. Maybe they’re exhausted from both.

This is for them. This is for you.

I wish someone had said it to me after I survived:

Hang on. It’s a long, bumpy road from here. Know you don’t have to carry it alone. You’ll learn how to live with it—not perfectly, not painlessly, but honestly. And that’s enough.

To the silent survivors: You are not alone. Your story matters—even if no one hears it. Even if it’s messy and complicated and still unfolding.

This is the face of survival. And maybe it looks a lot like yours.

If this spoke to you, you're not broken — you're surviving.
If it helped, pass it on. Someone else might need it more than you know.

Here are some places that offer real help:

• Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (US) – Call or text 988, or visit 988lifeline.org
• American Stroke Association – stroke.org/en
• American Cancer Society – cancer.org

No ads. No judgment. Just people who want you to stay.