
Twelve years ago today, Robin Williams tragically took his own life. A day that is forever ingrained in my mind.
I’ve shared the story of that evening many times before, but I believe it’s an important one to keep telling.
I was just four months into my own mental health journey the night Robin died. Moments before I read the news of his passing on my phone, I had been sitting alone in my car, in a dark parking lot, my family and friends having no idea of my whereabouts (once again), contemplating my own suicide.
It wasn’t the first time during those four months that I had thought about suicide, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time I would think about it or act upon those thoughts. But suddenly, for the first time, I began to truly understand the depths of my illness.
As the news of Robin’s death quickly spread, friends and family began texting and calling, worried about my safety and wellbeing. The easiest solution, in my mind, was to shut off my phone and silence the noise from the outside world.
By then, I was visibly shaken, alone, scared and suicidal. And my only thought, shortly after the initial shock, was:
“If someone of Robin Williams’ stature, who seemingly had it all, who always ‘looked’ happy, could take his own life, then what the heck am I waiting for?”
The truth is, we have no idea what someone else is truly thinking or feeling. We can’t see inside another person’s mind, and we can’t always tell the difference between what a healthy brain is telling us and what a depressed brain is convincing us to believe.
I often wonder what Robin would be doing today if he were still here.
Would he be performing a new stand-up show on stage to a sold-out crowd somewhere, making them laugh until they peed? Maybe he’d be working on another movie or lending his unmistakable voice to some new, outrageous character.
Maybe by now, he would have retired from show business altogether, choosing a quieter life with the people he loved, while lending his voice to a bigger purpose or cause.
I think about how many more lives he might have touched over these past twelve years if, in that dark and unshakable moment, he had been able to see through the clouds. If he had reached out to someone he loved and simply said, “I’m not okay.”
Trust me when I tell you, those are three of the hardest words to say out loud.
Robin didn’t reach out that night, and that dark, unshakable moment took him from the world.
A world that still needed him.
Robin’s passing is a reminder that kindness, laughter and a smile don’t always mean someone is okay inside. It’s also a reminder that we need to check in, reach out and stay connected, not just when someone tells us they’re struggling, but especially when they don’t.
Depression lies.
No amount of money, fame, success or laughter can simply silence those lies. Depression wants us to believe that tomorrow doesn’t need us. And some days, it is really, really hard to convince ourselves otherwise.
But one thing I know for certain is this:
Tomorrow still needed Robin Williams.
And tomorrow still needs you.
So please, check in. Ask the uncomfortable question. Pick up the phone. Sit beside someone. And if you’re the one struggling, please know that saying “I’m not okay” isn’t weakness. It’s an invitation to let someone help carry what feels impossible to carry alone.
If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, please call or text 9-8-8 in Canada/US.








You must be logged in to post a comment.