Are They Running Away—Or Running Toward Something?

Suicide isn't an abstract tragedy in my life.
It’s personal.
It’s in my bloodline, braided into the branches of my family tree.
My brother took his own life. And everything changed.

No matter how many times I’ve sat with someone grieving this kind of loss—or wondering if life is worth the weight—I come back to this haunting question:

Were they running away… or were they running toward something?

The Lie We Love to Tell

We love a tidy story.
We call it a “coward’s way out.”
We wrap our judgment in righteous-sounding rhetoric:
"How could they?"
"They had so much to live for!"

But when my brother died, none of that held water.
Not one platitude could hold the flood of reality:
He was in pain. He was tired. He was not weak. He was done.

I don’t say that to glorify what he did.
I say that because pretending he was just “broken” or “selfish” would be a lie.
And I won't lie about the dead to make the living more comfortable.

Running From What?

Some people are running from inner torment so loud it drowns out logic.
Others are trying to escape shame, addiction, trauma, or just the relentless grayness of life that never seems to shift.

I watched my brother slowly get buried under expectations and unspoken pain, under the belief that he had to hold it all together.
The man could light up a room—but he couldn’t light up his own life.

He was loved by many. But I don’t know if he loved himself.

And eventually, he just stopped everything.

People don’t choose suicide because they want to die.
They choose it because they can’t figure out how to live.

Running Toward What?

Here’s where I step out of the box—because I have to.
Because sometimes, I believe my brother wasn’t just running from pain…
He was running toward peace.
Toward silence.
Toward a place where he didn’t feel like a burden.

This is dangerous ground, I know.
I’m not romanticizing it. I’m not saying it’s a good choice.
But I am saying that it’s sometimes a human one.
Desperate. Honest. Final.

The Quiet War

Suicide isn’t loud.
It’s quiet.
A decision made in the marrow.
A surrender whispered when no one’s listening.

And for those left behind, it can feel like you’re carrying the weight of someone else’s war—with no map, no warning, no weapons.
Just grief.
And a thousand unanswered questions.

I still talk to my brother sometimes.
Not out loud. Just in the spaces between thoughts.
And every now and then, I hear him say:
"I didn’t leave you. I just couldn’t stay."

So Which Is It?

Were they running away—or toward?

The answer is never simple.
Never one-size-fits-all.
Sometimes it’s both.
Sometimes it’s neither.
Sometimes it’s just the end of a long, exhausting road.

But here's what I know now:
We need a world where people don’t have to choose between pain and death.
Where staying feels possible.
Where the masks can come off.
Where “I’m not okay” is met with presence instead of platitudes.

For the Living

If you’ve lost someone to suicide—welcome to a club none of us asked to join.
You don’t need to carry guilt for not knowing, not doing, not being able to save them.
You’re not God.
You’re a human with a broken heart trying to make sense of an earthquake.

And if you’re the one feeling like you don’t belong here, I see you.

Let me say this in plain language:

Stay.
Not because you owe anyone.
Stay because you are worthy of breath, of healing, of a tomorrow that might surprise you.
Stay because there is still beauty you haven’t seen.
Stay because your pain is real—but it is not the whole of who you are.

This is what I wish someone had said to my brother.
This is what I say now, in his absence.
This is my way of running toward you.

You don’t have to run anymore.
You can rest here.
You can speak.
You can be held.

You’re not alone.
Not now. Not ever.