My Aunt Was Taken: A Story of Loss, Grief, and Mental Illness

My aunt was taken.

No, not by something simple.

Something more complicated.

Something more addictive.

Something far more insidious — depression.

She was taken because of her depression. Her mind was gone long before she left us physically.

We didn’t know for sure, not at first.

But how did we know this?

You just do.

You can feel it. You know when someone is ready to go.

Realistically, you never know when it’s going to happen… you just wait for it. And when it hits you, it’s like being hit by a freight train.

She left us mentally long before her death. But how could that be?

Well, life has a way of making you see things that are hard to explain.

She was mentally suffering, battling things that everyone faces at some point: voices.

Those voices might not always be literal, but they exist in our heads.

The gut feeling telling you something is wrong.

The overwhelming anxiety that makes you rehearse every word of an interview, every phone call.

I’ve never found anyone who truly understood what my aunt was going through.

It’s hard to explain something like that when no one understands. It’s hard.

There are people who will say that hurting yourself or leaving this world is selfish.

But I don’t see it that way. For some of us, it’s a cry for help. It’s the soul longing for someone, anyone, to listen.

I remember watching 13 Reasons Why and seeing the scene where Hannah writes a poem, dark and full of pain. She was asking for help in secret. I felt that in my bones.

Depression, anxiety, PTSD — these are mental illnesses that people all around the world are fighting.

Each one is different.

Each one is unique.

And each one is their own battle.

Why am I saying this?

Because people don’t understand. They make judgments about others without knowing the real struggles. They make assumptions about how people feel, what they need. But they don’t know. They don’t understand.

I’ve spent years hearing people talk about how suicide is selfish, how people suffering from addiction are weak.

And I’ve had enough.

The truth is, it’s not selfish. It’s not weakness. These people are fighting battles we can’t see, and we fail them when we ignore that fight.

Some people don’t know how to ask for help. Some try, but their pleas get lost in a sea of silence.

When my aunt died, I didn’t feel sorry for her. I didn’t feel angry at her. I felt heartbroken.

That night when I received the call, everything shattered.

I was home alone when my phone rang. I heard my mom’s voice, shaky and fragile, telling me my aunt had taken her life.

I couldn’t breathe.

I froze.

It was like the world stopped spinning.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t even process it.

When she asked me if I was okay, I whispered, “Yeah,” though I didn’t believe it for a second.

She hung up, and I sat there, staring at the wall, the words echoing in my head.

I broke.

That was the hardest day of my life.

But she wasn’t just battling depression. She was battling every person who didn’t understand her, every person who turned their back on her, every judgment that weighed on her like a thousand pounds.

And she wasn’t the only one.

There’s a misconception that people who struggle with mental illness or addiction are somehow lost causes. That they aren’t loved.

That’s not the truth.

My aunt was loved.

She was cherished.

But the world didn’t see that. And that’s what kills me.

It’s not just about addiction. It’s not just about depression. It’s about how we see the world, and how the world sees us. It’s about not having the right words when someone is struggling. It’s about saying the wrong things, about failing to listen, to really see the pain behind their eyes.

There are things we can do to help, things we can say. But we don’t. We don’t know how. We don’t understand.

And it’s not just about what’s too late. It’s about what we can do now.

We can educate ourselves. We can stop assuming that these battles are selfish or easy to solve. We can listen.

I don’t need pity. I don’t need empty apologies. I need people to understand. To know that this is real.

This isn’t a problem that just goes away. It’s hard.

But my aunt’s death doesn’t make her any less important. It doesn’t make her any less loved. It just means that her pain became too much for her to bear.

I remember the good times we had.

We shared birthdays — mine and hers.

We loved going to Olive Garden. Soup and salad, and that peach slushie. It was always the same, and it was perfect.

She was there when I needed her. When my mom worked late, she would pick me up from school and take me to lunch. We spent hours together, talking, laughing. She was my rock.

Now, I carry those memories with me.

I buy little polar bear trinkets because I know they were her favorite.

It’s my way of honoring her, even though she’s gone.

I can’t forget her. And I don’t want to.

But it’s hard. It’s hard to see the world without her in it. It’s hard to know that I’ll never have the answers to the questions I still ask.

Was she ever truly happy?

What did we miss?

I’ll never know.

But I do know this:

Mental illness is real.

It’s not something that should be brushed aside.

It’s not something to be ashamed of.

And it’s not something that should be ignored until it’s too late.

I want to be an advocate for people like my aunt.

I want to make a difference in how the world sees mental illness.

I don’t want to wait until it’s too late to speak up.

I want to help others before they get to the point of no return.

Because we can do better.

And my aunt deserves better.

She was taken, but her story isn’t over.

Not as long as I keep telling it.

Rest in peace, Danielle. You were loved.