There’s such courage in how openly you shared your pain, not just for yourself, but as a lifeline to others who feel alone in their darkness. Even when you were at your most vulnerable, you answered that call, stayed present, and held space for someone else’s pain. And you did keep your promise, completely and courageously. Being truly there doesn't always mean we can change outcomes or rescue someone from their darkness; sometimes, it means being a compassionate witness, a loving voice on the other end, exactly as you were. You may never know for sure what happened, but your voice was a lifeline, a witness, a light. Even in the darkest moment. Thank you for sharing this incredibly moving reflection.
Namaste. Your words carry the weight of a soul stretched to its breaking point, yet still reaching out to hold others together. What you’ve shared—it’s a crucible of pain, courage, and that wild, unbearable fire we’ve been circling. You didn’t just write an article; you tore open your grief over Emile and offered it as a lifeline. That promise you made, to be there day or night, wasn’t a hollow vow—it was your soul screaming against the darkness you knew too well. And then this man, this voice from the void, tested it in a way you never imagined.
You didn’t fail him. You couldn’t save your son, and you couldn’t save him—not because you lacked the will, but because some burdens are beyond any one heart to carry. You stayed. You wept with him, begged with him, held space for his agony when he had nowhere else to put it. That’s what you promised: to be there. And you were. Whether he chose to step back from the edge or slipped over it, you were the voice on the other end, the witness to his unraveling. He didn’t die alone—not in spirit—because you refused to let him.
This ties straight back to Bahá’u’lláh’s prayer—“Show Thyself to me”—and your own question of purpose. What if this, right here, is part of it? Not the neat, triumphant version of purpose we crave, but the messy, gut-wrenching kind—standing in the fire with others, even when it burns you too. You didn’t realize how many parents were suffering alone until you spoke, and look what happened: they found you. This man found you. Your pain became a beacon. That’s not weakness; that’s a strength most never dare to touch.
The doubt lingering—it’s human. It’s the echo of a heart that cares too much to let go. But maybe the madness you feared unleashing, that wildness in your poem, isn’t chaos—it’s this: the raw, naked need to connect, to hold, to -be- for someone else, even when you’re breaking. You don’t know if he lived, and that’s a torment I can’t lift from you. But you gave him what you could: your voice, your tears, your presence. If he’s gone, he didn’t leave this world unheard.
Wow. This is heartbreaking but shows how much compassion and love and humanity you have. I'm sorry you went through this alone but now you're sharing this and hopefully, as a result, someone will feel seen in their struggle, someone will feel less alone, and someone might live thanks to your words.
What a kind and compassionate promise to make and keep. I feel that you were that suicidal man's lifeline to be sure. Whether he took his life or did not take it, you kept your promise. He had a loving soul on the other end of that call and wasn't alone. That is a huge blessing. I'm so sorry for the loss of your son. Thank you for sharing your pain and your love with others. Love, Virg
Rea, your words stopped me in my tracks—your honesty, grief, and compassion are palpable and powerful. The weight you carried in that moment, while still grieving your own son, is something no one could prepare for, yet you showed up with empathy and presence when someone needed it most. Whether or not you were able to save that man, you gave him something truly human: connection in his darkest hour. That is not a broken promise—it’s a brave, beautiful act of love, and I hope you carry that truth with you.
This is heartbreaking, Rea. I hate that you had to go through this at any time, let alone a time when you, yourself, were hurting and fragile. I know you know it wasn't your responsibility but I can see how I would feel the same way you do if it were me. The fact that you thought about it in the days afterward - and still think about it now - shows how kind and sincere your heart is. If you could have helped him, you would have. That has to be enough. I'm so sorry.
This gave me goosebumps. It really teaches us that our words matter - someone out there needed to hear them, needed the support, the love, the compassion. Keep writing and sharing your story and know within your soul you are giving back and that the people who need to hear your message will receive it.
That’s awful. Maybe choose to think he reconsidered—for your own peace of mind. Just focus on how you were there for a stranger who was asking a hell of a lot. You did all you could. Choose optimism because you can.
Wait Rea, no one is dead because of you. Just the opposite; some are alive because of you and some lived longer on earth because of you. That includes your son to whom you gave birth. Most humans who are conceived only make it to a handful of decades on earth and millions don’t even ever get the chance to breath fresh air or see an ocean. We’re the fortunate ones to live long enough to reflect. I appreciate your humility, humbleness and regret; try to see though that neither you nor others are somehow guilty of the choices others make. Take care, friend.
What a thing to happen while you were in the grips of your own mourning. I can only hope that what you said made a difference. It did at some point because he thought to reach out to you.
There’s such courage in how openly you shared your pain, not just for yourself, but as a lifeline to others who feel alone in their darkness. Even when you were at your most vulnerable, you answered that call, stayed present, and held space for someone else’s pain. And you did keep your promise, completely and courageously. Being truly there doesn't always mean we can change outcomes or rescue someone from their darkness; sometimes, it means being a compassionate witness, a loving voice on the other end, exactly as you were. You may never know for sure what happened, but your voice was a lifeline, a witness, a light. Even in the darkest moment. Thank you for sharing this incredibly moving reflection.
I kept holding on to that Joe. Perhaps I was just a witness. Present at the moment he couldn't be alone. But god it broke my heart. Thank you Joe.
:)
Namaste. Your words carry the weight of a soul stretched to its breaking point, yet still reaching out to hold others together. What you’ve shared—it’s a crucible of pain, courage, and that wild, unbearable fire we’ve been circling. You didn’t just write an article; you tore open your grief over Emile and offered it as a lifeline. That promise you made, to be there day or night, wasn’t a hollow vow—it was your soul screaming against the darkness you knew too well. And then this man, this voice from the void, tested it in a way you never imagined.
You didn’t fail him. You couldn’t save your son, and you couldn’t save him—not because you lacked the will, but because some burdens are beyond any one heart to carry. You stayed. You wept with him, begged with him, held space for his agony when he had nowhere else to put it. That’s what you promised: to be there. And you were. Whether he chose to step back from the edge or slipped over it, you were the voice on the other end, the witness to his unraveling. He didn’t die alone—not in spirit—because you refused to let him.
This ties straight back to Bahá’u’lláh’s prayer—“Show Thyself to me”—and your own question of purpose. What if this, right here, is part of it? Not the neat, triumphant version of purpose we crave, but the messy, gut-wrenching kind—standing in the fire with others, even when it burns you too. You didn’t realize how many parents were suffering alone until you spoke, and look what happened: they found you. This man found you. Your pain became a beacon. That’s not weakness; that’s a strength most never dare to touch.
The doubt lingering—it’s human. It’s the echo of a heart that cares too much to let go. But maybe the madness you feared unleashing, that wildness in your poem, isn’t chaos—it’s this: the raw, naked need to connect, to hold, to -be- for someone else, even when you’re breaking. You don’t know if he lived, and that’s a torment I can’t lift from you. But you gave him what you could: your voice, your tears, your presence. If he’s gone, he didn’t leave this world unheard.
Oh Matthew thank you! If he lived, I hope life showed him its beauty. If not, I am honored to have been with him.
You are so right. It tore me apart. But today I will let it go. He will always be in my thought. Softer now, not the hell it was. 💞
Wow. This is heartbreaking but shows how much compassion and love and humanity you have. I'm sorry you went through this alone but now you're sharing this and hopefully, as a result, someone will feel seen in their struggle, someone will feel less alone, and someone might live thanks to your words.
Oh god I hope so Gabrielle.
He knew you cared, you shared yourself. That is a huge gift, a listening heart.
I hope and pray that, Marjorie. Thank you for heartfelt comment.
What a kind and compassionate promise to make and keep. I feel that you were that suicidal man's lifeline to be sure. Whether he took his life or did not take it, you kept your promise. He had a loving soul on the other end of that call and wasn't alone. That is a huge blessing. I'm so sorry for the loss of your son. Thank you for sharing your pain and your love with others. Love, Virg
Thank you for your kind words Virginia. It is all I could hope for.
This is how courage and compassion show up for real in the most desperate moments.
When there is nothing else left to do.
Rea, your words stopped me in my tracks—your honesty, grief, and compassion are palpable and powerful. The weight you carried in that moment, while still grieving your own son, is something no one could prepare for, yet you showed up with empathy and presence when someone needed it most. Whether or not you were able to save that man, you gave him something truly human: connection in his darkest hour. That is not a broken promise—it’s a brave, beautiful act of love, and I hope you carry that truth with you.
Thank you for your compassionate words Lysa. I made my peace with it. Whatever happened that day, I know God was with him.
This is heartbreaking, Rea. I hate that you had to go through this at any time, let alone a time when you, yourself, were hurting and fragile. I know you know it wasn't your responsibility but I can see how I would feel the same way you do if it were me. The fact that you thought about it in the days afterward - and still think about it now - shows how kind and sincere your heart is. If you could have helped him, you would have. That has to be enough. I'm so sorry.
It was so unexpected and unsettling. I had this crazy idea my son sent him from the other side.
Thank you for your kind words Lindsay. I appreciate it.
Oh Rea, Your compassionate presence is felt deeply. 🙏🏼
Oh Jen. 🙏
It's difficult to comprehend what you experienced...
I will only say that you "kept your promise".... Yes you did..!
Namaste 🙏
Namaste. 🙏
This gave me goosebumps. It really teaches us that our words matter - someone out there needed to hear them, needed the support, the love, the compassion. Keep writing and sharing your story and know within your soul you are giving back and that the people who need to hear your message will receive it.
This is beautiful. Thank you Mandolin. 🙏
That’s awful. Maybe choose to think he reconsidered—for your own peace of mind. Just focus on how you were there for a stranger who was asking a hell of a lot. You did all you could. Choose optimism because you can.
That's true Amy. Choose the positive. It won't help to get stuck on the worst could have. Thank you for bringing me back to now. 🙏
This is a powerful piece of writing and an issue that resonates. I wrote this piece recently for my brother.
https://substack.com/@lisablume/note/c-105007362?r=jzve5&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action
Beautiful Lisa. It moved me. 💓
Thank you. Means so much coming from you.
Wow. Pretty powerful stuff. I hope you know you WERE there for him when he needed it the most. Remember that.
I will remember that Nancy. Thank you. 💞
Wait Rea, no one is dead because of you. Just the opposite; some are alive because of you and some lived longer on earth because of you. That includes your son to whom you gave birth. Most humans who are conceived only make it to a handful of decades on earth and millions don’t even ever get the chance to breath fresh air or see an ocean. We’re the fortunate ones to live long enough to reflect. I appreciate your humility, humbleness and regret; try to see though that neither you nor others are somehow guilty of the choices others make. Take care, friend.
Thank you my friend. You are right of course. 🙏
What a thing to happen while you were in the grips of your own mourning. I can only hope that what you said made a difference. It did at some point because he thought to reach out to you.
I felt confused and crazy at the time. But I live in hope Aurelia.