You’re only dancing on this earth, for a short while.  This past February I learned that Stephanie Selby, who became famous for being the main protagonist in Jill Krementz’ book A Very Young Dancer died from complications of a suicide attempt. I felt sorrow—and maybe even complicity—I had idolized her for years and never once wondered what her life was actually like. I am her age cohort, another 1965 kid, and I was obsessed with her book. Holding the obituary in the NY Times, I stared at the picture of the front cover of that book as I had once stared at it for years. When you are a kid, there are lots of successful grown-ups to look up to, but to learn about a successful kid was a whole other level.

She was this image of perfection and success. I thought if I could learn how to be that successful, I could fast track adulthood which would give me a way out of a difficult childhood. I read and re-read that book. I scoured the book for clues—for success—for how to be thin. My mother had been a model and was obsessed with weight putting me on diets from the age of seven—she wanted me to have a ‘dancer’s body.’ As one of the tallest kids in my grade, and a solid kid, this was never a possibility. But I read the book over and over—hoping for some sort of osmosis: hoping that you could become someone by studying them. Reading about her suicide was a wake-up call: a reminder that you really never know what people are carrying. You never really know the weight of people’s burdens.

I was reminded of her again today when an old teammate posted a story about a friend who died from suicide—a friend who had so many gifts and so much to offer. A friend who was going to be desperately missed. I thought about the gap—the grand canyon wide gap—between the pain and sorrow that someone can be holding—and the love and admiration that others have for them.

I don’t have any massive wisdom about suicide-- only questions. Only an earnest desire and wish to bring more peace and calm to those who struggle. I am no stranger to suicide. I grew up in its specter—and know the fear and power that threats and attempts bring. I know that it can seem like a powerful immediate answer to what looks like an interminable problem. Except it is the exact opposite. Suicide is actually a permanent solution to a temporary problem. And it a lousy solution. There are so many more ways to hold pain. There are so many ways that we as a community need to hold trauma and grief—so that people don’t feel so alone with theirs.

From the veterans who commit suicide (there are roughly 22 a day) to the young folks who do—there is a theme of not being able to live with oneself. Whether from the moral injury of war—or the pain of living with trauma, sorrow or shame. Suicide is a singular death that that behaves like a shrapnel wound—injuring at least three generations of families—and tearing through communities.

It’s important to remember that the strength of people on the outside may not match their insides—that you may not know how much they are struggling. How much, like a swan, they are paddling below the surface, even when it seems they are gliding, quietly.

It's important that we don’t look away. That we hold that this level of sorrow exists even if we can’t see it. And it’s important to normalize the very human, and perhaps necessary, feelings of despair. The feelings that come with wondering who to be, how to be, and what to do—especially with regards to trauma and grief. I believe if we did a better job honoring the healing process—and normalizing how long it can take to heal and how hard it is to heal—we wouldn’t leave people feeling so alone holding their burden.

And maybe this is a small thing, but it seems like we need a shift from ‘who I am or what I do’—to ‘what I can contribute.’ . There’s too much pressure on being something or someone in particular—and the feelings of falling short of whatever that ideal is—of living with some profound disappointment that you failed at something—even though that something—or that standard of being—wasn’t actually real. This was always difficult but social media has made it worse.

But the ability to contribute? That’s something that is always available. The ability to contribute a conversation—contribute your effort (whatever it may be)—contribute your smile, your laughter, your tears. Contribute your silence, your listening and your comfort of others. Contribution is a stance that strengthens patience. When you contribute you plant a seed of some kind. And you don’t know when that seed will germinate. You don’t know when it will sprout. Contribution prepares the ground to hold the despair. And sometimes that’s the best we can do, while we wait for a better day ahead.

© 2022 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

 If you or anyone you know is contemplating suicide call 988 or reach out here.

If you are seeking a therapist—this is a helpful website