About a year ago today, I didn’t exist.

My body was here. It occupied seats in Chelsea Smith’s classes, met the people who would become Chelsea Smith’s friends, walked in Chelsea Smith’s shoes, and breathed into Chelsea Smith’s lungs.

But the body was not Chelsea Smith.

That body was shadow – a lost form searching desperately for itself. That body was trapped in a loop of regret it had been in for as long as it could remember; that body was working towards an unclear future, while continually ruining its present.

That body was certain that it was living out its last days. That body was dying.

And yet, that body had potential. Inside of its chest, there was a flame; a spark of hope, sparking and sputtering, a flicker of humanity that clung to words of faith, clung to the words, “It gets better,” clung to life.

But still, the body was mostly hollow. It breathed many breaths, but took in little air – it pumped many heartbeats, but was silent and subdued. Pain had chiseled the spirit that had once been Chelsea away; pain had thrown water onto her fiery determination, her relentless resilience, until all that remained was the tiny flame and the body. But, still, it remained.

Demons tried to snuff out the flame – demons in the form of train whistles and pill bottles, of pink razors and racing cars; demons fed by anxiety attacks and mood swings, fed by heavy breathing and loneliness. The demons were everywhere.

But still there was that flame, and though Chelsea was silenced, the flame was loud.

It remembered how Chelsea had once bent over with laughter, how she had once run through fields and flown across stages, had once held the hands of children and kissed the cheeks of old women. The flame remembered.

And the flame fought. It spit fire at pills and razors, shot fiery life into the dying girl’s limbs, puppeteering pills back into desk drawers and fingers to crisis hotlines. The flame glowed, bringing firefly people to the dead girl’s side, attracted to the glow deep within her, blowing oxygen into her with smiles and hugs and laughter, feeding her pure light.

The flame made choices – it urged the dead girl into poetry shows, and when the flame spoke, the girl’s mouth moved. The mouth began to remember what movement felt like.

The flame grew fierce, nurturing children and loving strangers and caring for friends, pulsing and radiating and feeding off of the clean air you can find in giving and teaching and kindness and in strength – the clean air of hope.

The flame grew and grew until it filled the girl’s whole body, and the body became the warrior – fighting against stigma, fighting to save others, fighting to save itself, fighting for Chelsea’s life. It remembered Chelsea’s dreams and began making them reality, remembered her favorite jokes and brought them to her lips – remembered her purpose, and reminded her of it in turn.

She’s not sure which day it was – whether it was a lazy Sunday or a frantic Wednesday, a day or afternoon. But, one day, the dead girl’s eyelids blinked, and when they opened again, Chelsea was there.

I was there.

I was so excited to be alive again. I ran up to friends and loved ones, grabbing their hands, crying, “I am back! I am here! I am better.”

But they only shook their heads and smiled, perplexed. They said to me – “But what do you mean, Chelsea? You were here all along.”

To those who are suffering:

You might not feel like yourself anymore. You might not remember the last time you were happy. You probably have no idea who you are without your illness - maybe, you think you're nobody.

You’re in pain, or you’re numb. You might feel like something inside you is dying, and that death is inevitable – that there is no way to escape your fate, that you are the exception to “It gets better,” the one who will not “see tomorrow,” the one who will not “keep living.”

That feeling is real, but it is not the truth. The feelings are lying to you.

I know you feel like you are fading from existence, but trust me when I say, your flame is still here. You are creating warmth where you stand, touching lives where your heart beats; your flame may be small, and yes, it might be dying, but all fires can be re-kindled, and yours is no exception.

You are important. Like a fire, you take in the environment around you and release it back as energy, sending waves of positivity and warmth all around you. You are powerful. No one else can play your part, my friend – you are here for a reason. Take that tiny flame inside you – the spark keeping you going, the hope that is making you read through this story right now – and burn everything.

Burn down the dead trees in your mind, the cursed seedlings of dark thoughts and chilling regrets. Burn your past and your mistakes and your pain – burn away everything. Burn, and let the ash settle around you. For a while, it will still be gray – you may not even know that your hope and strength has made any difference.

But then, it will begin. Out of the ash, a tiny sprout will grow.

Maybe it’s a friend who thanks you for staying.

Maybe it’s a neighbor who says that they love that you’re here.

Maybe it’s a cute dog you meet in the street – whatever it is, that sprout with nourish you. It will make your heart grow stronger, and more and more sprouts will come, because your resilience will have created a garden of limitless potential. The garden is your life, and you choose how it grows.

So nourish your flame.

It gets better.

I promise.

Keep living.

References in this piece are made to suicide prevention campaign slogans coined by the organization To Write Love On Her Arms. For more information on their mission, as well as to find resources for recovery, visit TWLOHA.com.