For Christopher

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A note before you read:

Content note: This piece talks openly about suicide, grief, and the loss of someone I love. I wrote this letter Friday after learning we lost him, so if these topics are difficult for you right now, please take care of yourself and consider reading this another time.

If you are struggling or feeling alone, there are people who want to help. I’ve included resources at the end of this post.

TW: Grief, suicide, loss

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Chris,

You weren’t supposed to die alone. You weren’t supposed to lose all hope. You weren’t supposed to leave like that.

The worst part is I knew it was coming.

I knew hope was slipping. I knew you were in survival mode. When I told my pa you were in a “survival gap,” putting everything you had into making it to the next paycheck, I realize now what I actually meant is that you were between life and death.

I knew it.

And I tried to help. I tried to be steady. I tried to be present in the way a lot of men are present with each other. Not dramatic. Not emotional speeches. Just checking in every few weeks.

Talking about our exes.

Complaining about healthcare.

Frustration with the economy.

Navigating the limited options for surgery.

And the quiet weight of living in bodies that are ours but somehow never felt like they belonged to us.

That was our language. That was how we stayed alive.

And you were the brave one first.

You walked ahead of me. You showed me what it looked like to exist honestly in a world that doesn’t make that easy. When my own life felt like it was collapsing, you were there.

When I came out, you were there. You told me what to expect. You told me what it would feel like. You made it a little less terrifying.

I wish the news had been a surprise.

I wish I could say I never saw it coming. I wish I could say things looked fine until suddenly they weren’t.

But the truth is I watched the light getting dimmer.

And I hoped I was wrong.

I wish I had been there with you. I wish you didn’t have to pass alone. I wish someone had been sitting next to you, even if there were no words left to say, even if your mind was made up.

But because the world is what it is, you died alone.

And that breaks something in me.

Still, I need you to know something.

Your death isn’t shameful. It isn’t a failure.

You fought for a long time. Longer than most people understand.

I love you. I support you. And I’m not angry at you.

I’m angry at the world.

I’m angry that the systems that were supposed to help you failed. I’m angry that hope became too expensive. I’m angry that survival became a daily calculation.

But I’m not mad at you.

I’m just angry that I couldn’t be there for you the way you were there for me.

Like you were when my life felt like it was collapsing.

I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you the hope you brought me. I’m sorry you were alone at the end when you never left me alone in my worst moments.

I’m sorry this is how your story ends.

Rest now.

When you see Grammy, tell her I love her and I miss her. And I'll see y'all in a few decades.

All my love,

Elias

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If You’re Struggling

In the United States, you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. It’s free, confidential, and available 24/7.

You can also chat online at https://988lifeline.org

If you’re outside the U.S., you can find international crisis resources here: https://findahelpline.com

If calling a hotline feels like too much, consider reaching out to someone you trust. A friend, a family member, or even a short message to someone saying “I’m having a hard day” can open a door.

Consider messaging me because sometimes a stranger whose judgement doesn't matter can be the easiest to talk to.

You deserve support and you deserve to not carry everything alone.