By Kynch Lynn A. Gonzales
(Published in its print edition on September 6-12, 2025)
I spent half of my teenage years planning my funeral. For three years, I carried the weight of wanting to disappear. I almost didn’t make it here. There were nights I thought the world would be better without me, days when the weight of my own thoughts was too heavy to bear. These thoughts haunted me for years. I never had the courage to do it, but the idea was always there—lingering quietly in the background. It was the kind of pain you don’t talk about easily. And being someone who believed in God only made things more confusing. I thought what I was feeling was a sin—that even just thinking about ending my life would mean eternal separation from Him. It felt like I was failing—not just mentally, but spiritually too.
It started in 2022, when I was 13. My grandfather had just passed away. I thought I had handled it well. But months later, the grief started creeping in—slowly, quietly. I began missing him in the still moments, in the routines we used to share. At the same time, our family’s financial situation was getting worse, school pressures were building, and something deeper inside me was beginning to fall apart. Every day felt heavier. I wasn’t just tired—I was exhausted in a way I couldn’t explain. And in that heaviness, I began to question my faith. I stopped going to Mass, which was unusual for me. I remember praying and wondering, “Am I just talking to the wind? Are You even real? And if You are, why do You let people suffer like this?”
My grades dropped. From being a top student, I suddenly found myself sinking into mediocrity.I became someone my teachers worried about. One of them spoke to me after class—she saw through the silence. But how do you explain a darkness that has no clear shape?
In February 2023, I reached a low point. My thoughts were spiraling, and I began to wonder if death was the only way out. But somehow, I held on. Maybe it was because of my faith. I remembered what I had been taught: that ending your own life is a sin, and our bodies are not ours—they belong to God. But that belief only made things more complicated. I messaged a priest and asked, “Will people who take their own life still go to heaven?” He replied, “It depends.”
That answer struck me. It wasn’t a yes or no, but it gave me pause. Not long after, I went to him for confession. And when it ended, I said goodbye—not casually, but in a way that felt final. Like I was quietly preparing to leave the world without saying it out loud
Then he referred me to someone—a nurse he trusted. At first, I was frustrated. But maybe I was reacting without fully understanding the moment. Looking back, I think he did the right thing. Maybe he was overwhelmed, or maybe he just wanted to make sure I’d be safe
That same day, I went through counseling. Not in a hospital, not in the RHU, but in a convent. Opening up was hard. I was afraid that by talking about my pain, I might “transfer” it to whoever was listening. I barely spoke. Then the counselor stepped out to hand some papers to the RHU, and a priest stayed with me while I waited. That’s when I saw someone I didn’t expect at the door—my father.
I didn’t know what to say. I just cried. He kept apologizing, and so did I. I felt so selfish. Why did I put them through this? When we got home, I saw the pain in my family’s eyes, and the guilt hit me hard. I kept asking myself, “If I had gone through with it, would I have been selfish? Would I be free from pain—only to pass it on to the people I love? Would this be a permanent stain on our family name?”
Things got better after that—for a while. But between December and April, it came back. This time, it brought anxiety. It was especially hard because I had started getting photography gigs at events. That meant talking to people and socializing. After every conversation, I would shake. Sometimes even during. I’d blame it on the cold. A friend once told me that when I’m exhausted, I always think negative and I should take rest rest. She was right. But I didn’t always listen. I just wanted to help, even in the smallest ways—like giving people photos they could hold on to.
During the campaign period, my father was running for councilor, and I wanted to support him. I remember asking if I could go to Basco to get checked or diagnosed. He said, “If we go now, I might have to back out of the election. Let’s focus on you first. I want you to be okay.” But I told him, “Kaya ko pa. Continue mo ’yan. I’ll support you in every way I can.” And surprisingly, that helped me. Being around people, being busy, being useful—it slowly pulled me back. And one day, I realized that I was still here. And I was better.
Now I’m in Basco—away from my family and friends, learning how to carry myself. Starting over on a different island. And yes, I’m afraid. Afraid of facing the darkness again. But maybe I’ve reached a place of acceptance—where I know it might come back, but I also know it won’t have the same power over me.
I was hesitant to post this at first. Part of me worried that your perception of me might change. That maybe you’d see me differently—less capable, too fragile, too dramatic. But I want to be seen not just as the girl who suffered, but as the girl who fought and the girl who stayed.
To everyone who stayed, who listened, who reminded me that I mattered—thank you. You helped save me in ways you may never fully realize.
We all have our silent battles. And if yours is starting to feel too heavy, please know that asking for help is okay. You don’t have to rely on people for everything. But even a little company—even for a moment—can help more than you think.
I don’t know—maybe it’s the quiet of the night or maybe it’s just my heart finally letting go of its fears—but I finally found the courage to post about this. I’m not sure why it’s happening at 2 a.m.
Some days will break you, others will heal you—but in between all that, there are moments worth staying for. Laughter shared with friends. The warm embrace of someone who cares. And the chance to see tomorrow, no matter how uncertain it may be.
I’m not sharing this to romanticize pain. This isn’t just “sadness.” This is real. It’s heavy. And it’s something many of us carry quietly.
Now, I’m 16. Doing what it takes to make my teenage years less heavy, less wasted, less drowned in silence. I only have four years left of being a teenager. And I want to spend them living—not just surviving.
So please—stay. You don’t have to be okay right away. You just have to keep going because your story isn’t over yet. And you deserve to be here when the next chapter begins.#
