INTRO
When I wrote this, it was my intention to include it as a “Prologue” and “Epilogue” for the book I recently wrote. While I want to share the honesty you’re about to read, I’m leaning against including it in the published/printed book. I don’t want this to detract from that.
PROLOGUE
Tuesday, January 20, 2026 - Denver, Colorado
Vickie and I drove to downtown Denver, had a nice dinner, then attended comedian Jim Gaffigan’s performance at the Paramount Theater. Gaffigan was outstanding. My seating assignment was Row S, Seat 2. The guy in Seat 4—heretofore known as “S4,” stole the show—at least for me.
Gaffigan spoke, S4 laughed—and laughed—and laughed. We all know those people who can’t sneeze just once. Each session involves three or four sneezes. S4 can’t laugh once. He’d laugh at a joke. Stop to catch his breath, then resume laughing at the same joke. Then take a breath, then laugh again. Gaffigan would be telling his next joke and S4 was still laughing at the previous joke. S4 missed half of the show.
I was impressed. Astonished, actually. Like, how can anyone be that free to express their happiness? Between his brain and his response triggers, there are no filters, no constraints, no speed bumps, or road blocks. In recent years, my brain has built all of those things–each year a bit higher than last.
I can’t stop thinking about it. I could just accept that Gaffigan told jokes and S4 laughed a lot. But no, I couldn’t let it go. My brain no longer works like that. How can his? I asked an artificial intelligence tool to explain what was happening. Here’s how it described S4’s “joke-reception-to-uncontrollable-laughter” process:
"A rapid cognitive-emotional-motor cascade triggered by successful incongruity resolution in higher cortical networks (prefrontal and temporal lobes), which activates the brain's reward and limbic systems, unleashing an involuntary, rhythmic expulsion of air coordinated by brainstem centers. This produces coordinated facial, vocal, respiratory, and postural convulsions we recognize as laughter—often escalating to whole-body shaking or reflexive tears when the mirth is strong."
Mirth. That’s it. That’s my problem. S4’s mirth tank is overflowing. Mine is on “E.”
Wait. Can someone remind me what “mirth” is? I mean, it’s been so long since I’ve felt mirth or been mirthy.
Mirth /mûrth/ noun
Pleasure; joy.
- A state or feeling of merriment; demonstrative gaiety; jollity; hilarity.
- A cause or subject of merriment: that which excites gaiety or laughter.
- To please or make merry.
- To rejoice.
Gaffigan’s performance ended, we started to depart the beautiful, old, theater and I put my hand on S4’s shoulder.
“Excuse me sir. My name is Tom. I just have to tell you that while Gaffigan was great, you made this a perfect night for me in a way you’ll never understand. Thank you, and drive home safely.”
I was as sincere as I’ve ever been. He’s probably still wondering what S2 was talking about. S4 spent 80 minutes tapping into and surrendering to happiness. He went somewhere I can no longer go. That place where unabashed happiness exists. But that night, while caught in his slip stream, I came as close as I’ve been to that place in many years.
It felt good to feel good.
"Happiness is amazing. It's so amazing, it doesn't matter if it's yours or not."
We Only Share the Good Stuff
The author had it all, or so it seemed. His social media posts painted an idealized Norman Rockwellian American life. Stability. Fun. Peaceful. Adventures. In the past year—it doesn’t really matter which year, because he did it every year—the author eagerly shared his look-at-me life for all the world to see.
While others were home feeding their families, comforting their children, grinding to pay their bills, and cherishing those all-too-infrequent moments of peacefulness, the author was searching for his next look-at-me postcard moments.
He always found them. He made sure others saw them.
Since pictures weren’t enough, he felt compelled to type thousands and thousands of words and force-feed them to everyone in his hometown.
But amid all those pictures and words, the author didn’t share everything. He left some things out. Things weren’t as good as he portrayed. He didn’t tell you everything.
That changes now.
The Rest of the Story
Sunday, January 8, 2023
Forest Hill Cemetery
Duluth, Minnesota
It was cold. Ice-fishing cold. Drive your truck across the ice-covered lake, cold. But I still needed to go outside, to escape, to run away. I needed to clear my head—take a few deep breaths of frigid air. I bundled up, loaded our dogs in the car, and then drove to the cemetery.
The cemetery, of all places.
I’d been here before.
The snowbank-bordered roads kept Matty and Bella from disrespectfully walking across any grave sites. A pair of Texas dogs experiencing near arctic conditions. What were they thinking? Initially puzzled, they soon loved it. It was a nice start to the day, a needed diversion from my turbulent, racing thoughts.
I parked in the back corner of the cemetery to put as many gravestones as possible between me and those normal folks going about their serene Sunday morning lives. This was the perfect setting for an imperfect day. The perfect setting to devise my ‘get busy living’ or ‘get busy dying’ plans. The cemetery might not have been my brightest choice, but this wasn’t my brightest day. This was decision day. One way or another, a turning point.
Twenty minutes after arriving, we got back in the car and drove around Duluth for an hour or so. I needed time to build the courage to execute the next step.
I parked in my parents’ driveway, then went inside. Even though it was late in the morning, Mom was still sleeping as she often was at this time of day during her final few years. My stepfather, Dennis, was in the kitchen making coffee and steel-cut oatmeal.
It was time for me to take the first step—maybe the most difficult step of my life:
“Dennis, there’s something I need to say to someone. I don’t want to dump this on Mom or my brothers—they all have a lot going on. Vickie is stressed back in Colorado with her new job and finding a house for us to live in. I can’t add another pile of stress on her. And I apologize in advance for sharing this with you.
But…
Well…
For the past few months, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about killing myself. Almost nonstop. There have been hours here and there where other things are on my mind, like when I’ve been driving to those hockey rinks that I wrote about. Audio books, podcasts, and road trips have been a good diversion. But, inevitably, those other thoughts return. My thoughts of suicide are relentless—they just won’t stop.
Ok, that’s it. I’m sorry. I just needed to get it out.”
While at the cemetery and driving around town, I’d chosen to get busy living.
One more try at this thing.
We sat down, drank our coffee, threw some raisins into the oatmeal, then did what guys do:
“What time do the Vikings play today? Should we get a pizza from Sammy’s?”
The following post never appeared on Facebook: “Looking forward to watching the Vikings this afternoon. This morning, I told my stepfather about my incessant thoughts of suicide. We’re getting pizza later.”
It wasn’t really like that—the Vikings and pizza part. The mental health part was exactly like that. My stepfather did what the best of stepfathers do—he listened. He offered constructive advice. We talked about positive things I could do, like getting a temporary membership at the nearby health club. Better to exercise there than on the icy neighborhood roads. Or, considering my latest revelation, in the cemetery.
One conversation. It was the most important admission of my life.
Regarding my life, I’ve eagerly shared the good. I’ve never shared this. But until recently, I’d never experienced this. How do you even write about this? Elements of my life will never be the same after sharing this.
I’d spent years telling myself that I can fix this brain of mine. I’d be down. I’d feel better. Then down again. Then better. That cycle was continuous until the down days dominated. It became obvious it was time to chart a different course.
There’s a weird word in the English language I wanted no part of. That word is “stigma.” The stigma of letting others know you are somehow broken. I didn’t want to be embarrassed. I definitely didn’t want others to worry about me…as if they weren’t already aware something was definitely wrong. In hindsight, it wasn’t only OK to let someone know—admitting the problem might have been the most important thing I’ve ever done.
I was relieved. But this wasn’t over. Things were bad. They were about to get worse.
Unimaginably worse.
50 Hours of Steven King
My wife and I were in the process of a move from Texas back to Colorado. It was stressful. We sold our house in Fort Worth, Texas, in mid-November, then rented a nice little place with an impractical price tag in Boulder, Colorado, for a month. Then, we opted for Plan B. I’d bring the dogs up to Duluth for several weeks—it turned into several months. I’d stay with my mom and stepfather. Meanwhile, my wife stayed with one of her daughters in Colorado. My job was to take care of the dogs and go to hockey games. Hers, along with my stepdaughters, was to find our next home.
Vickie and my stepdaughters found the right house for us to buy. That was a relief. What followed was a Steven King movie—legitimate terror.
On February 27, six weeks after admitting my mental health problem, we received notice to begin the closing process early. We were provided the instructions for wiring our money to the closing company.
To make the move to Colorado without going back into debt, we’d sold two houses—our house in Texas and our rental property in Longmont, Colorado. The mortgage for the Texas house was paid off six months before we sold it. The American dream had come true. We owned our house. The rental property in Colorado was the house where Vickie raised her two daughters. The proceeds from one house were in one bank. The proceeds from the other house are in a different bank. It was such a relief when this day arrived. Finally, we can settle back into the white-picket-fence world we had in Texas.
On February 26, we received an email detailing everything we needed to do to begin the closing process the following day. The email was beautifully written. Clear and concise.
As instructed, we provided our digital signatures to wire one-third of our funds from one bank and two-thirds from the other. Within a half hour of initiating the transaction, the closing company sent an email. They wanted confirmation that we’d initiated the transaction. I assured them we had.
They became impatient and sent a second email.
The journalism education I received 35 years prior was about to be leveraged.
While reviewing both emails, I noticed a couple of abnormal sentence structures. Odd punctuation. Subtle, but incorrect. I thought, who puts a space between the final word of a sentence and the period? They did it twice. They also advised that their “assistance” would be calling. They meant “assistant.”
The original email they sent yesterday was perfectly written. Obviously, a form letter. It all fell apart when they had to reply on the fly.
Then, one of their “assistance” called us.
Alarm bells went off.
Shit.
I told that person I was on the other line and I’d call him back. I lied. I wasn’t on another call but would be the second I hung up. I immediately called our bank in Fort Worth. Vickie called our bank in Denver.
“STOP THE WIRE TRANSFERS!!”
Too late.
The money was gone.
All of it.
This Can't Be Happening
We’d both worked very hard for decades to get to a comfortable financial position. I never thought I’d get there. And just like that—after clicking a button on an email, the proceeds from decades of work disappeared.
It was a helpless feeling. Six weeks earlier, I had the suicide discussion with my stepfather. Now this. I was freaking out, to put it mildly. I said the words—“If we lose everything, I’m done. Gone. It’s over.”
We went to bed that night, knowing it was all gone but hoping it could be retrieved. Our family members knew what was going on. Everyone was a mess.
Early morning phone calls indicated no progress in recovering the money.
How much money was missing? A lot. It almost doesn’t matter when it’s all you have. If you have a hundred dollars and it all disappears, it’s horrifying. If you have a million and it all disappears, it’s horrifying. It wasn’t a million. But it was enough to completely pay for a house in southwestern Denver, and this isn’t an inexpensive place to live.
The banker in Texas didn’t comfort me. “90% of the time we don’t get any of it back.”
The FBI got involved. The Colorado Bureau of Investigations got involved.
The emails the scumbags have been sending were exact replicas of the closing company’s emails who we had a relationship with. Same logo, same font, same pictures of the contacts we’d previously engaged with. There was one almost undetectable difference. They’d created an imposter email account. Instead of the email address ending in “@lgtcs.com,” the fake one ended in “@lgtcss.com.” They added an “s” to the email domain’s address.
Twenty-six hours after this situation began, an early afternoon phone call to Vickie delivered good news. They’d recaptured one-third of the money.
Massive relief. But two-thirds were still gone.
Another sleepless night. Minutes felt like hours. Toss. Turn. This can’t be real. Toss. Turn. This can’t be real.
There was no good news waiting for us the following morning.
Then, around 2 pm—50 hours after this nightmare began, I received a call from the bank in Fort Worth. All our money had been recovered.
We were extremely lucky. We dodged a…well, I won’t use the typical metaphor to finish that sentence. This happened 34 months ago. My stomach still turns while writing about it.
It was an enormous relief. One tragic situation averted.
Another one—of infinitely greater consequence, was soon to befall our family.
The Worst Day
Following the move, we started getting settled. It’s a nice house in a comfortable suburb 18 miles southwest of downtown Denver. It was early Spring, a beautiful humidity-free Colorado summer was forthcoming. Trees were blossoming, grass was growing. I was excited to mow the lawn at our new home. Normalcy was slowly setting in.
Until…
Three months after admitting my mental health issues, and 40 days after nearly losing everything, a close family friend who was also facing mental health challenges made the ultimate, final decision and died by suicide.
Typing the final three words of that sentence still seem surreal. Three of the heaviest words in the English language. Before this, I mistakenly thought I understood the definition of the word “shocking.”
I didn’t then.
I do now.
A couple of days later, I shared my recent mental state with family members who’d arrived from out of town to offer their support. One of them made a reasonable observation—something like, “Why would you be depressed or suicidal? You’ve got a great wife, your stepdaughters, the grandson, a great job, and a beautiful house. You’ve got it all.”
The person who said that was correct. On the surface, I had it all. Those things make many things easier for me to deal with, but don’t solve every problem. I’m acutely aware of the following:
My worst day would be someone else’s best day.
Pretend I typed that a hundred times. It’s undeniable.
It adds a level of blame-filled guilt I carry around. Like, I have a good life—how can I be depressed—why can’t I fix this? What about the millions of people on this planet who would happily trade places with me, depression and all? Other people have to worry about where the next incoming missile might land and explode. I worry about that small patch in the front yard where grass doesn’t want to grow.
People endure horrifying situations.
I don’t.
But still, my brain.
Our friend’s suicide presented a new problem for me.
That was a bizarre sentence for me to write, right? Like, “Tom, someone died—and now you want to complain about the problem that situation created for you?” It’s a selfish thought, no doubt, but here’s what I mean:
Suicide was no longer an option for me.
I couldn’t put our families and closest friends through that again. I was going to have to figure out this living thing. Get my brain right. Move forward. Stay upright.
There’s another way frame the impact. Our friend’s decision may have saved my life. I’ve thought about that more than you might imagine. With that, hundreds of conversations about me were taken off the table. Those conversations which begin with words like:
“He had so much going for him”
“If only we’d known”
“He did what?? Are you sure?”
“If he’d only said something”
Nobody had to have those discussions about me.
But I wasn’t fixed.
Barely Upright
That was the guy who arrived at Halsted Field in Two Harbors on September 22, 2023.
A complete mess. A person looking for inspiration and positivity. Looking for a story to write while needing all the king’s horse’s and all the king’s men to put the pieces together again. A person desperately in need of a boost.
But Wait, There's More
Epilogue
Major Disorder
After Life
The Prologue and Epilogue for this book can be summarized by a scene from the Netflix series named “After Life.”
TONY: (Ricky Gervais)
“I need some advice. I wanted to kill myself. And when I couldn’t or hadn’t. I thought, okay, I if I’m gonna’ do this carrying on living thing. It’s gonna be on my terms. I’m gonna do what I want. And I’ve always got suicide to fall back on.
ANNE: (Penelope Wilton)
“Good to have a backup.”
TONY:
“Exactly. But it didn’t go to plan. At first, I thought it was like like a superpower. I can do anything. Who cares? What’s the worst that can happen? Nothing can hurt me ’cause I can always kill myself, you know? But then, I realized, you can’t…you can’t not care about things you actually care about. You can’t fool yourself. And it was something you said—that it’s not all about me.
And even though I’m in pain, it’s worth sticking around to maybe make my little corner of the world a slightly better place.”
ANNE:
“That’s all there is. Happiness is amazing. It’s so amazing, it doesn’t matter if it’s yours or not. It’s that lovely thing. A society grows great when old men plant trees, the shade of which they know they will never sit in. Good people do things for other people. That’s it, the end.”
Those following me on Facebook were probably wondering why I repeatedly shared the video of a Pep Rally in Canadian, Texas. Now, you probably know the reason.
"Happiness is amazing. It's so amazing. It doesn't matter if it's yours or not."
Bookends
A beginning. An ending. A prologue. An epilogue. In between, hundreds of darn good people.
Bookends are an interesting thing. Between them, they hold everything together—keeping everything upright and stable. Everyone I interviewed knew they were helping me write a book. They didn’t know they were keeping me upright. At the time, I didn’t fully comprehend how important they were to me.
Now, I have no doubt.
My old friends. My new friends. My bookends.
Thank you, everyone!
MY BOOKENDS – THE CONTRIBUTORS
Special thanks to these six people without whom this story couldn’t have been written:
Tom Nelson – Head Coach, Football, Two Harbors Agates
Angie Nelson – Football Wife, Mother of five
Scott Ross – Activities Director, Lifelong Friend
Melanie Ross – Cheerleading Coach, School Librarian
Andy Cavalier – Head Football Coach and Athletic Director, Canadian, Texas
James Bryant – Principal, Canadian High School
COVER PICTURE PAINTING
Brooklyn Nelson
ACTIVITIES DIRECTORS – Two Harbors Co-op
Kevin Snyder – Marshall School, Duluth, MN
Melissa Milroy – Lakeview Christian Academy, Duluth, MN
AGATES COACHES+SUPPORT
Andy Morsette – Assistant Coach
Bill Anderson – Assistant Football Coach, Boys Basketball Coach
Josh Widdes – Assistant Football Coach, Business Owner, Good Citizen
Ryan McIntyre – Assistant Coach – Statistician
Scott Libal – Assistant Coach
COLOR GUARD – ANDERSON CLAFFY POST 154, TWO HARBORS
Jim Latvala
Scott Adams
Rey Lakso
67 SECONDS
It wasn’t my intention to write a book. That changed while learning the story of Tammy Churness. Her story—including the loving support offered by community members led me to change my plan. This changed from a silly story about concession stand items to one about the countless good, caring people of Two Harbors—then Canadian, and then Denver. I never met Tammy but she, as much as anyone, inspired me to write this book. I just want to extend my heartfelt empathy, condolences, and appreciation to the Churness family:
Emma Churness
Aaron Churness
Alec Churness
Katelin Johnson
CHECK THE BOXES
Kyle Anderson – Coaching Staff
Todd Beck – Coaching Staff
Andrew Schreyer – Coaching Staff
Ben Eliason – Coaching Staff
Carol Anderson – Parent
CHEERLEADERS SECTIONS
Atlanta Ness
Emma Churness
Emma Grover – Carlton/Wrenshall Girls Basketball
Heidi Holbeck
Max Byzewski
Savannah Anderson
Tina Marie Beck-Jones
Melanie Ross – Advisor
FOOTBALL PLAYERS – TWO HARBORS
Amir Ali
Cameron Poe-Johnson
Carter Nelson
Chase Pierce
Hugo Helstrom
Jake Widdes
Josh Johnson
Ryan Stone
Scout Pfeffer
Tate Nelson
Tommy DeChantal
Trenton Meeks
Troy Carlson
Zach Johnson
AGATES FOOTBALL HISTORY
Charles Halsted – Head Football Coach, Retired
Dave MacDonald – Former Activities Director and Coach, Retired
Larry Sorensen – Advisor, Admin of THHS Sports Alumni History Facebook Group
Spencer Ross
THHS BAND
Nola Motzenbacher
RESTAURANTS
Vera Pratt Olson – Judy’s Cafe – Two Harbors
Lisa Heinonen – Owner – Judy’s Café
Charlotte Krodle, The Canadian Restaurant
REFEREES
Austin Erickson, Referee – Minnesota
Matthew Erickson, Referee – Minnesota
Mike Schmidt, Referee – Minnesota
Brent Kubis, Referee – Minnesota
Justin Niemann, Referee – Minnesota
“IT PERSISTS”
Ali Ray
Kelly Ray
Scott Libal
Sophia Ray
Emma Churness
SIDELINE TO BEDSIDE
Charlie Halsted
Connie Halsted
Deb Halsted
Sande Halsted
Bob Nyberg
Lee Oling
Larry Smith
THE PIONEER
Max Byzewski
Jim Byzewski
Atlanta Ness
Emma Churness
Melanie Ross
Savannah Anderson
PARENTS/FRIENDS/GOOD CITIZENS
Dawn Jones
Deb Halsted
Jenny Falk
Joel Heller
Kelly Ray
Kyle Imholte
Nikki Meeks
CHAIN CREW
Mike Johnson
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Pam Carlson – Northern Lights pictures of Halsted Field, Ticket Manager
Lisa Malcomb – North Shore Storm, Agates Football, Yearbook photos including Silver Bay sports
Megan Loppnow – Proctor Rails sideline photographer.
Kim Kosmatka – Marshall High School Social Media.
TELEVISION MEDIA
Jeffrey McClure – Northern News Now
PRESS BOX and VIDEO
Gary Molitor
Halsted Field End Zone Cameras: Ziggy, Axel, Issac, Ryan and Junior
The North Branch to Two Harbors Collaborative Move
Bonnie Garner
Julia “Jo” Lindstrom via Bonnie Garner
Cameron Poe-Johnson – Two Harbors Football Player
Carter Nelson – Two Harbors Football Player
Eli Herron – North Branch Football Player
Reegan Dick – North Branch Football Player
Ryan Stone – Two Harbors Football Player
Justin Voss — Head Coach, North Branch Vikings
THE TEXAS CHAPTERS
CANADIAN, TX SCHOOLS
Andy Cavalier – Activities Director, Head Coach-Football, Canadian TX
Wendy Cavalier – School Teacher, Football Mom
James Bryant – Principal, Canadian High School, Football Dad, Basketball Dad
Chris Koetting – Hall of Fame Coach, Retired Teacher
Rosemary Koetting – Hall of Fame Wife, Teacher
Reagan Risley – Elementary School Principal
Michelle Thompson – Advisor
Jeff Quisenberry – School Principal
Brandon Wall – Football Coach, Boys Basketball Coach
WAY OF THE WILDCATS CAMP
Luke Flowers
Blake Flowers
Camren Cavalier
Clay Kendall
Emiliano Hernandez
Max Dumbauld
Wyatt Davis
Mandy Flowers
Kevin Flowers
Kathy Cavalier
Braiden Galla – Coach, Teacher
Andy Cavalier
Wendy Cavalier
NO WORRIES – MILES OF SMILES
Terry and Brad Henderson
This was the longest chapter in the book and the most difficult to write. I’m not sure I can adequately thank Terry and Brad for sharing memories of their son, Miles, then trusting me to write about his life. I’m glad our friendship will continue in forthcoming years.
David Flowers – Former Head Coach, Canadian, and grandfather of Luke Flowers
Eric Hall
Jared Hohertz
Derek Maupin
George Peyton
Kyle Lynch – Superintendent of Schools, Seminole, Texas
Gary Henderson, Retired Hemphill County Sheriff
MESA VIEW ASSISTED LIVING
Sondra Hill – Executive Director
Sonja McAnally – Activities Coordinator
Jazzy – Staff, Mesa View Assisted Living
Dale – Mesa View Assisted Living Resident
Betty – Mesa View Assisted Living Resident
OTHER FOLKS FROM CANADIAN
Colby Leach – Canadian Booster Club
Officer Fredley – Law Enforcement Officer. I think he was assigned to keep an eye on me at the October 2023 Pep Rally
COLORADO HONOR GUARD
Honor Guard, Harry C. Miller Post 1187, Castle Rock, CO
Dylan Gregory
One of the many fateful moments along the way was when Dylan walked into Starbucks wearing a military uniform an hour after I started writing about Miles Henderson. Dylan was on his way to serve on the Honor Guard for several funerals at Fort Logan National Cemetery in Denver.
Brett Pick
Craig Bussard
Dale Fort
Greg Fuller
Sam Holder
Tina Cosley
WRITING ADVISORS
Rusty Griffin
Tim Graupman
WRITING MOTIVATORS – STARBUCKS, HIGHLANDS RANCH
Craig Patterson
Tripper Allen
Mike Ellis – the new author of “A Few Stories of Things Shared, Hope Finds a Home”
Thanks to every barista who welcomed and brewed gallons of coffee for me at Starbucks.
SPECIAL THANKS
Thanks to Bob Nartonis for arranging to have this story published in book format. That was as thoughtful of a gift as I’ve ever received. I’ll soon be taking the next steps to get it published and available for sale for those who might want a printed edition.
JIM GAFFIGAN PERFORMANCE – PARAMOUNT THEATER, DENVER, JANUARY 21, 2026
My thanks to “S4” for helping me to get to a place of happiness I didn’t know I could experience again. Knowing that a streak of “mirthy-ness” still exists within me is an awareness whose importance I can’t overstate.
MY FAMILY
Thanks to all of my family members who, at various times, had to be wondering what the heck was going on with me. I regret adding another layer of stress to everyone’s life. Hopefully, that’s behind all of us now.
CANADIAN PEP RALLY
Last but not least, the hundreds of people in that gymnasium on November 7, 2025. They didn’t know it, but they gave me one of the best birthday presents of my life. But where was the cake?
MENTAL HEALTH RESOURCES
If you’re dealing with depression, find someone you can talk to. You don’t have anyone?
- The National Suicide Hotline can be reached by dialing 988.
- My phone number is: (303) 880-4616. Just keep in mind that despite the fact that I can now place “MDD” at the end of my name, I’m not a real doctor. But I can listen.
- Talk to your doctor, or a counselor. You don’t have to go through this alone. Find a support group nearby.
- Be open-minded about trying with a medication to help you. I waited far too long to try it. Another word of caution—if you start feeling better after taking the medications, be careful about convincing yourself, as I did, that you’re cured. Many people can get to the point where they can stop taking those medications but consult with your doctor before taking that step.
This depression stuff doesn’t always make sense. I asked AI to describe for me what happens to my brain when depression knocks on the door. The response was:
“When depression arrives, the brain’s balance of mood-regulating chemicals and communication between emotion, motivation, and thinking centers becomes disrupted, making negative thoughts feel louder and rewards feel muted. At the same time, stress circuits stay overactive while flexibility and hope feel harder to access, even though the brain can recover with support and time.”
But what triggers it? I asked my friend Grok, an artificial intelligence application:
Depression usually isn’t triggered by just one thing—it’s best understood as a combination of biology, life experiences, and psychology working together.
- Biology: Genetics, brain chemistry, hormones, sleep disruption, and chronic stress can make someone more vulnerable, but it’s not simply a single “chemical imbalance.”
- Life events: Loss, trauma, bullying, academic pressure, illness, family conflict, or big changes can trigger depression, especially if stress lasts a long time.
- Psychological factors: Patterns like harsh self-criticism, feeling powerless, or constantly expecting the worst can make depression more likely or keep it going.
- Environment & habits: Isolation, lack of support, poor sleep, and ongoing stress can push a vulnerable brain toward depression.
In short, depression often starts when stress or life events interact with a brain that’s already vulnerable, and the good news is that because multiple factors are involved, there are also multiple ways to help it improve.
OTHER RESOURCES
A couple of other types of therapy have been helpful. You can find a bunch of free resources online via a basic search, or an artificial intelligence tool. The concepts are known as:
- Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) – My counselor pointed me in this direction. She advised me that I catastrophize things too much. CBT helps me adjust the way I perceive and process things. Like, the world isn’t really ending. It works. Until I look at “X.” (Twitter). 🙂
- Behavioral Activation (BA)
Destined for the Trash Bin
JANUARY 31, 2026
I wrote this a month ago. I was hesitant to share it with anyone. A week later, I started sharing it family members and a few friends. I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate to share as part of the book I wrote, or as a stand-alone story on my website, or to just delete it. I had discussions about all of those possibilities.
Three hours before I wrote the previous paragraph, I texted two people and told them I might just throw away this entire story.
Then, I watched the video below and decided to move forward.
“After Life” references. This was from Season 1, Episode 5, From the Netflix series, “After Life” created by Ricky Gervais. If you’re looking for a series to watch and haven’t seen this, I can’t recommend it enough. This scene begins at the 23:01 mark of the episode. Actors: Ricky Gervais, as Tony and Penelope Wilton as Anne.
Two Harbors High School Pep Rally - September, 2023
All In - Everyone!
Playlist Songs
I don’t write without music in the background. These two songs have been on my playlist for several years.
“1-800-273-8255” by Logic
“You Get What You Give” by New Radicals
Tom:
Thanks for sharing your journey from darkness to light. Very courageous to put it all out there. I hope it provides a safe illuminated path for others to follow.
Your most important story to date!
Thank you for writing, and then sharing, this.
Tim Graupman
Well done, Thomas “Words” Smith. Spent 50 minutes reading this work of wonderful by you. I’m so happy you have Vicki. And those daughters. I have a step daughter, and she’s the only daughter I’ll ever have. She’s my daughter. You have two daughters. I’m glad you spoke with Dennis. Thanks for sharing “mirth.” Thanks for “happiness is amazing.” Thanks for writing. Keep writing. Always, keep writing. See you soon.
Tom thank you for your heartfelt story. Mental health seems to be at pandemic proportions. We are fortunate to have competent health providers who genuinely care. The reality is that medication intervention is often necessary. It is not a condition we can just wish away. Nor is it a moral lapse. While your pen has been cathartic for you I’m also glad you confided with those around you namely family and friends. Asking for help is never a weakness. It demonstrates that we have reached a juncture that we cannot navigate. As a pastor I’ve had the sad duty of presiding at funerals for those who tragically ended their life. The pain and despair remains with those who survive. Suicide is a permanent solution for one but an agonizing outcome for those who loved them. I’m glad you are still here Tom. We need to support and love each other.
Thank you Dean. You’re correct–writing that story was cathartic. It helped. But 24 hours after sharing it, I’m fully aware that I still have a ways to go. My thought tonight is that yesterday was equivalent to the day I told my stepfather–it’s just that I shared the news with everyone instead of just one. Yesterday, there was that positive feeling of admitting the truth. Tonight, I’m reminded there’s still work to be done. I need to keep moving in the right direction. With that, being better for my family and friends. The best news is that unlike the day I told my stepfather, I’m already taking a medication that definitely helps. Late last night, I was sharing a bunch of messages with a friend. That person shared their experience including the fact that the day might come where I can stop taking the meds. Hopefully, I’ll get there too. But I’m not going to rush the process. I’m not going to look too far ahead. For now, it feels like I’m on the right path.
By the way, you should become a writer–you’re better at it than me. 🙂 Thanks for the message. I greatly appreciate it.
tsmith
Tom, we are glad you found the help you needed to get through life. This Saturday will be one year since our son followed through with taking his life. Our pain never goes away.
As soon as I saw the notification of your message to me, I remembered hearing the news about your son. I didn’t realize it’s been a year. I’m sorry that he felt he felt he needed to make that decision and for all the pain you’ve experienced since then.
This stuff gets complicated. Every individual’s experience is unique. Obviously, I can’t speak for your son but part of my experience was the frustration of thinking I’ll never be able to fix this–and that nobody else will be able to fix it. I’m guessing that many people reach that conclusion. Something I’ve thought about is that we all know how to lose weight. Move more, eat less. That makes sense to everyone. We don’t know how to fix our depression–our brains are more complicated and, with that, a bit scary, frustrating, and leading to a feeling of helplessness. I felt all of those things. I’m just lucky that my depression wasn’t as severe as others endure, and I eventually did make the decision to try a medication. I’m also lucky that my prescription works for me. They don’t work for everyone. I’m no expert on any of this. All I know is that it’s complicated.
I re-read those last couple of sentences and noticed I used the word “lucky” a couple of times. I do think there’s an element of this that can be tied to a form of luck. Specifically, some people get cancer. They didn’t do anything wrong, It just happened. Same with depression and many other illnesses. We are aware that many illnesses and diseases can be cured via surgery or other treatment. Depression is different. You can go to the hospital for surgery to remove a tumor. There’s no surgery to remove depression. There’s a degree of hopefulness and hopelessness at play with each type of illness. And we’re all just ordinary folks who don’t always know what to do. It can be overwhelming. I wish I had all the answers.
Thank you for the message. If you’d ever like to talk, I’m available at 303-880-4616.
tsmith
Our son suffered for years. He went to a few treatment places, but after leaving them there was no follow up. He was on meds but no therapy to go along with it. Sadly on his last day he went to check himself in for treatment but he didn’t have the $5,000.00 they asked for. And of course he wouldn’t call us for help. So …… he went to a motel and hung himself. Some days we can’t believe he is really gone. We will never be the same again. Sorry to lay this on you but sometimes I just need to tell someone. Tom, I hope you stay strong.(Sue)
Unimaginable. Will offer more thoughts tomorrow.
I always wait to read your stuff so I can give it my full attention….sort of to be able to digest your words because I enjoy your writing. This one …. well the only word that comes to my mind right now is wow. And it isn’t often that I am wordless. So wow. Thank you Tom for writing. Thank you for encouraging me to write. Keep writing. Your words go places where other’s can’t reach. Big hugs.