My daughter was sitting on the love seat, playing with her phone, our two dogs hovering close by her.

“Hey listen,” I said nervously, “I really want to apologize for last year. You have to know, I wasn’t in my right mind. I didn’t mean to scare you or hurt you. I was really sick. I didn’t really want to die. I love you more than anything in this world.”

She looked up at me. Her face was full of empathy and dare I say even tenderness.

“I know, remember I’m taking psych classes? You couldn’t help it. It’s okay.”

She wants to work with people who have mental illness. She herself has a mild case of depression and anxiety problems.

It made me feel better to know that she didn’t harbor a grudge against me. It had been like a flatulent elephant in the room for months, my chaotic suicide attempt last July.


I had felt the need to make amends with the people that I had hurt the most. She was the last one on the list.

One of her friends who happens to be transgender is cutting himself. She asked me yesterday what she should do.

“Spend as much time with him as possible and keep an eye on him. Basically, just be his friend, honey.”

She nodded.

“I hate seeing someone I care about hurt so much,” she said sadly.

At that moment, I realized that my little bug (her nickname until she started puberty) had a heart the size of Texas.

She’s going to make a great impact in the mental health field, I just know it.