On Suicide, Sovereignty, and the Right to Question Staying

This isn’t a cry for help.
It’s not a glorification.
It’s a reflection—one many don’t dare to voice, but millions quietly feel.

Let’s talk about suicide.

Not as a “mental illness.”
Not as a crime or shameful scar.
But as a very real choice many make in a world that’s made it increasingly hard to want to stay.

I can’t pretend I don’t understand.
Because I do.
I’ve questioned the value of this ride more times than I can count over 25 years of my life.
I’ve asked the questions many avoid:
“How could I do it painlessly?”
“Would I just awaken in another karmic loop?”
“Would anyone even tell the story right?”
And honestly—“Is this timeline even worth the loyalty?”

Let’s be real:
Society isn’t exactly laying out a red carpet for sensitive, visionary, multidimensional beings.
It’s fluorescent-lit cubicles.
Empty apologies.
Hollow relationships.
Systems built to suppress sovereignty and then punish those who want out.

We say life is a gift, yet give people a box full of suffering, judgment, and endless ‘shoulds.’
No wonder so many choose the exit door.

It takes a warrior level of courage to stay.
And it takes a warrior level of courage to leave, too.
I don’t look down on those who chose differently.
I understand.
Especially when you’ve spent your life being the odd one out, carrying pain that doesn’t even belong to you, trying to bring light into rooms that keep the curtains closed.

People cry over death but don’t appreciate life.
They shame the act of leaving but never ask why it became the only option.
They make someone’s departure about themselves instead of taking accountability for the collective conditions that led to it.

Let me be clear:
I’m not actively planning to leave. Nor incentivising anyone else to.
But I also won’t pretend I’ve never thought about it—deeply, strategically, spiritually.
I’ve had the “Swiss plan” in my hard drives, waiting there for the right opportunity. I’ve told my family, I’ve registered as a donor.
Not because I’m careless, but because I’m clear.
I see myself as a soul in a vessel, here for the ride—but not enslaved to it.

Death isn’t the opposite of life.
It’s part of the cycle.
To some, it feels like sleep—an eternal dream.
And while I’m still here, I refuse to let fear keep this topic taboo.

We speak of “unalive” instead of dead, as if the truth needs to be censored.
We act like talking about it will make it contagious.
But silence is the real sickness.

Let’s ask the real questions:
Why are we more invested in preventing people from dying than making it worthwhile to live?
Why do we fund suicide hotlines but underfund education, healthcare, art, and love?
Why do we criminalize assisted death but do nothing to change the conditions that make people want to die?

I’m not interested in political correctness.
I’m interested in truth.
I’m interested in making space for souls to be honest about their exhaustion, their grief, their confusion.

I’m not here to save everyone.
That’s not my job.
But if my honesty can hold even one person through the night, I’ll keep showing up.

I’ve met death before.
Through grief, through multiple losses, through myself.
And I’ve come back with a clearer sense of what this ride is:

Earth is a training ground.
Hard by design.
Challenging by structure.
And sometimes, that’s what makes it beautiful—like a game that you play knowing it’s just one level in the soul’s journey, until it doesn’t feel like a game worth playing anymore.

I’m not here to carry the world’s weight.
But I’ve slayed enough ancestral dragons to know I came here with tools.
And while I’m still breathing, I’ll use them.

To touch one soul at a time.
To speak what most won’t.
To stay—until I no longer choose to.

Because it is a choice.
And that choice deserves reverence.
Not shame. Not silence. Not spiritual bypassing.

To those who’ve stayed—you are brave.
To those who’ve left—you are free.
To those deciding—you are sovereign.

And to myself, I say this:
Thank you for choosing again, today.

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If this moved you, share it.

Not to sensationalize, but to humanize.
We are not meant to navigate this alone.
And maybe—just maybe—talking about the hard things is how we keep showing up for each other.