Words, that are meant to be said, Written By Ivory Le Rouxe

Words, that are meant to be said, Written By Ivory Le Rouxe

We live in a world where everyone has a story, but often those stories are hidden behind perfect smiles, upbeat music, and carefully filtered photos. We see laughter, adventure, love—but these are only highlights, the sunniest scenes in a much larger, darker narrative. How often do we take the time to look deeper, to ask questions that go beyond, “How are you?” 

Some of the most vibrant, beloved people among us—those we least expect—have been taken by suicide. Take the story of Anthony Bourdain, a man whose passion for food and culture shaped how millions saw the world. Bourdain traveled the globe, shared meals with strangers, and reminded us of the common humanity in every corner of the Earth. He seemed to have it all—a dream career, a following that adored him, and a lifestyle many would envy. But under that surface was an internal struggle, one he carried quietly, even as he inspired others. His death was a devastating reminder that outward success and inner peace are not the same thing.

Or consider the heartbreaking story of Robin Williams, whose humor brought so much light to the world. For decades, he made us laugh, cry, and find comfort in characters who were flawed but lovable. He was the joyful voice behind Genie, the compassionate mentor in Dead Poets Society, and the mischievous nanny in Mrs. Doubtfire. People were shocked to learn that behind his brilliance was a man battling severe depression and a neurodegenerative disorder. As someone who spent his life bringing joy to others, he felt, in the end, that he couldn’t find it for himself. His passing left a silence that even the loudest applause couldn’t fill.

And let’s talk about Cheslie Kryst, a beauty queen and attorney who won Miss USA and used her platform to advocate for justice and mental health. Her beauty, charm, and intelligence shone, and her dedication to advocacy made her a role model for young women. But even as she encouraged others, she struggled with her own mental health. Her social media was filled with positivity and encouragement, yet she felt so isolated and overwhelmed that she, too, chose to end her life. Cheslie's story reveals a painful truth: even the brightest stars burn out in silence, and those who seem to have everything can sometimes feel they have nothing at all.

For some, the isolation and uncertainty brought by the COVID-19 pandemic intensified these struggles. Those who once thrived on the company of others were suddenly alone with their thoughts, separated from the routines that had brought them comfort and stability. People lost jobs, dreams, and loved ones. In the silence of quarantine, small anxieties became monstrous. One friend I know, an extroverted musician, went from performing for thousands to living alone in a quiet apartment, his career put on hold. He told me he had never before heard his thoughts so loudly, never before felt so helpless. Those quiet months nearly consumed him, yet he kept it hidden, out of fear of worrying those close to him.

Mental health issues often emerge quietly and gradually, shaped by past traumas, moments of rejection, and battles with self-worth. For some, the pain stems from childhood experiences of bullying, rejection, or abuse. A young man, raised in a family where emotions were suppressed, struggled through his twenties, hiding his pain under a mask of “I’m fine.” Eventually, he shared that the shame he felt wasn’t from a single event but from the cumulative weight of years spent feeling unseen. Over time, his sense of self-worth eroded until he felt he had nothing left to give.

When people reach the brink, they often feel the world has turned its back on them. We tell people to “reach out,” but what if they have? What if they tried and were dismissed, told they were overreacting or being too sensitive? The stigma surrounding mental health is still strong, even in societies that claim to be open-minded. Some of the most resilient people I know would rather suffer in silence than be seen as a burden. They believe, wrongly, that their pain is theirs to carry alone.

And yes, there are people of faith who are told that suicide is forbidden, a violation of divine will. But what about those who feel pushed to that breaking point? Some hold on to faith like a life preserver, yet even that can falter when despair is overwhelming. When hope feels elusive, when every breath feels heavy, what’s left? How can we expect them to hold on to a humanity that has not held on to them?

Humanity—it’s a word we toss around without realizing how hollow it has become. We live in a society that prizes success, speed, productivity. Compassion, true compassion, feels scarce. It’s easy to say, “Reach out if you’re struggling,” but do we really mean it? When a friend seems down, do we take time to sit with them, really listen, let them know they matter? Or do we dismiss it with a quick message, “Let me know if you need anything,” without expecting them to actually ask? 

The truth is, being there for someone is rarely convenient, and listening deeply is difficult. It requires us to go beyond what’s comfortable, to sit with discomfort, and to offer more than words. It demands we take time to understand the world through their eyes. Sometimes, all it takes is a single act of kindness, a simple “I’m here,” to make someone reconsider a decision they’ve already begun to make.

It’s too late for those we’ve lost, but for those who remain, there is hope. Imagine a world where we truly listen, where we take each other's struggles as seriously as we take our own. Imagine a society that sees mental health as just as important as physical health, that acknowledges trauma as deeply as it does ambition. If we all extended a little more empathy, a little more kindness, who knows how many lives could be saved?

Humanity doesn’t have to be a memory. It can be an act—a deliberate, constant reminder that we are not alone, that we are seen, and that we matter.

Life doesn’t offer a single tragedy, one neat heartbreak that we can learn from, heal from, and move on. It’s never that simple. Life is relentless, sometimes cruel—a series of blows that follow us one after the other, each time chipping away at what we thought was our resilience. And for many, it feels like there’s no chance to breathe, to heal, to feel secure. Just when they think they’ve risen above one struggle, another strikes. They become masters of survival, forced to smile through pain that’s too heavy to explain, hiding behind a mask to protect themselves—and to protect others from their truth.

Yes, we hear it all the time: “People who smile the most often hide the deepest pain.” But how often do we let that thought pass without really thinking about it? It’s so much easier to focus on the laughter they bring, the fun they offer. As long as we’re entertained, lifted up, we don’t ask questions, don’t look for the cracks. It doesn’t occur to us that the person making us feel alive might be breaking down inside.

Humans are, by nature, selfish beings. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but in some ways, it’s true. We take comfort in people’s joy, their kindness, their warmth, yet rarely do we consider that their energy might be all for us and none left for themselves. And then, what happens when someone close to us finds themselves in the depths of despair, in that dark room where reaching out feels impossible? Sometimes it’s not that they don’t want to reach out—it’s that they don’t believe we’ll truly listen. They trust us as friends, as family, but they’re uncertain we’ll understand or even try. 

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? We’re good at offering advice, at speaking about mental health, at making statements that sound empathetic. But how many of us are actually there when it counts? How often do we ask someone to open up, only to turn away or minimize their pain when they do? It’s easy to tell someone to reach out, but when the moment comes, we often fall short. Real listening requires work—it requires empathy, patience, and the ability to sit in discomfort. It means caring without judgment, without the need to “fix” them. Are we truly prepared to do that for each other?

How long can we keep observing from a distance? Speaking from a place of comfort without ever truly engaging? What’s the purpose of speaking if we don’t use our words to reach out to those we love, if we don’t mean what we say? And as observers, are we really seeing people, or just the surface they allow us to see? Are we noticing the subtle cracks, the tired smiles, the almost-hidden sighs, or are we blinded by our own needs and distractions?

It’s time we look a little closer. To speak with purpose. To move beyond being passive observers in the lives of those around us. When we truly listen, when we show up without needing to “solve” but simply to support, we give others permission to share the truth of their experience. And we create a trust that isn’t just as friends or family but as someone who genuinely cares about their well-being.

What if, the next time we see someone smiling, we ask them—not in passing, but deeply, sincerely—if they’re okay? What if we begin to see beyond their laughter, beyond their energy, and recognize that they, too, might be carrying something heavy? By doing this, by moving past observation to engagement, by replacing empty words with meaningful actions, we can start to change things. We can be part of a world where people feel safe to share, to trust, and to ask for help.

It’s hard work, and sometimes it means facing things we’d rather avoid. But the price of inaction is too high. The longer we wait, the more we risk losing, until we’re left only with regret and silence. We can’t undo the past, but we can start today. We can choose to be more than just observers, more than mere speakers of empty words. We can choose to be truly present, to truly listen, and to truly care. Because in the end, that’s what it means to be human.

It feels empty sometimes, doesn’t it? To keep talking about humanity and hope when we live in a world where loss seems to come too often, too suddenly. We watch our idols, those who inspired us, those who seemed untouchable, leave this world—some by choice, others by fate. We feel that emptiness all over again when a loved one is taken, someone we thought would be with us forever. And in those moments, it’s hard to believe there’s anything left worth fighting for. Why should we change, when society itself feels like it’s stuck in the same patterns of indifference and selfishness?

We speak of wisdom, as if learning from mistakes is enough to change us. But how wise can we really be, if we ignore the pain of others, if we’re too caught up in our own noise to truly see or care? Wisdom should bring insight, yet we continue on in circles, making the same choices, living with the same regrets, letting history repeat itself in our lives. It’s as if society has etched something in our hearts, a coldness, a selfishness, that even we can’t shake.

And for those who suffer in silence—those who keep their burdens tucked away from the eyes of others—it’s even harder. Society teaches us to wear masks, to “keep it together,” to hide our scars. We don’t want to burden others, we don’t want to break the illusion that we’re strong, resilient, or happy. But those quiet struggles, the secret pain, often becomes too much to bear alone. We hear people say, “reach out,” yet when the world feels indifferent, reaching out feels pointless, doesn’t it?

But hear me when I say this: even in the quietest, darkest moments, when it feels like you’re invisible, you are not alone. Maybe it feels like the world wouldn’t notice if you disappeared, that your presence is just one small flicker in an ocean of millions. But it matters. You matter. And even if it seems no one would care, I care. If you take nothing else from these words, know that there is someone out there—yes, a stranger—who wants you to stay, who believes that your life has meaning, that your story is worth living, even when it feels like it’s been reduced to a whisper.

It’s okay to feel alone in this crowded world, and it’s okay to feel the weight of that loneliness deeply. But don’t let it convince you that you don’t belong here. Even if others fail to see it, your worth is not defined by their blindness. You are not a mistake, and you are not your regrets. There is strength in choosing to stay, in choosing to reach out, even when it feels like no one will listen. And remember this: love, real love, begins with the love you give to yourself. No one else can make you believe in your own worth. No one else can love you in the way that you need to love yourself. 

So, in this moment, hold onto this truth: you have a place in this world, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. Society may be flawed, filled with indifference and repetition, but you can be different. You can choose to love yourself enough to live, to stay, and to find meaning in a world that often feels void of it. You are not alone, and you are not unloved. And as long as you’re here, I’ll be here to remind you of that truth.