About the Author

Hi, I’m Claire Thompson.

I’m a 35-year-old psychiatric nurse living in the heart of Savannah, Georgia, where the Spanish moss drapes over ancient oak trees and the air feels heavy with history. My life is a delicate balance between the ordinary and the extraordinary—a dance of school drop-offs, family dinners, and the lingering shadows of a past I can’t quite escape.

I grew up in a small town in Georgia, where I learned early on the value of compassion and resilience. Those lessons led me to the University of Pennsylvania, where I earned my degree in nursing. For more than 10 years, I worked at Hiraeth Mental Health Center in Atlanta, a place that felt like a calling at first. But it was there that I encountered something that changed me forever—an experience so unsettling, so deeply haunting, that I eventually left my job and sought refuge in a quieter, private practice.

My journey into psychiatry wasn’t just a career choice; it was born out of heartbreak. When I was 16, my younger brother, Daniel, began to struggle with severe depression. He was the kind of person who lit up a room—funny, creative, and full of life. But as his mental health declined, I watched him become a shadow of himself. I felt helpless, unable to reach him no matter how hard I tried. One night, he confessed to me that he felt like a burden, like the world would be better off without him. Those words shattered me. I promised him I’d do everything in my power to help, but I didn’t know how.

Daniel never got the help he so desperately needed. Despite our family’s efforts, the system failed him. The resources were scarce, the waiting lists too long, and the stigma around mental health too heavy. I remember the last time I saw him—he looked at me with hollow eyes, the light that once defined him completely gone. He told me he was tired, so tired, of fighting a battle no one else could see. A week later, he took his own life.

Losing Daniel shattered me in ways I still can’t fully articulate. It wasn’t just the grief of losing my brother; it was the guilt, the anger, the endless “what ifs” that haunted me. What if I had pushed harder to find him better care? What if I had known the right words to say? What if someone had truly listened to him, without judgment, without dismissal, and offered him the hope he so desperately needed?

His death left a permanent mark on me. It made me realize how fragile the human mind can be and how devastating it is when we fail to truly see and hear those who are suffering. That’s why I chose psychiatry—to be the person I wish Daniel had had during his darkest days. To offer a lifeline to those who feel like they’re drowning in their own minds. To listen, truly listen, without judgment, and to remind them that their pain matters, their story matters, and that they are not alone.

My family has been my anchor through it all. Michael, my husband of 10 years, is my rock. He’s a consultant in IT, a man of logic and calm, who has stood by me even when I struggled to explain the nightmares that kept me awake at night. There were nights when I’d wake up in a cold sweat, and he’d hold me until the shaking stopped, never pushing for answers I wasn’t ready to give.

Our daughter, Emma, is an 8-year-old with a heart as big as her imagination. She’s the kind of child who draws pictures of rainbows and unicorns but also asks questions that leave me speechless. One evening, as I tucked her into bed, she looked up at me with those big, innocent eyes and asked, “Mommy, why do you look so worried all the time?” I froze, my throat tightening. How could I tell her that I was haunted by what I’d seen at Hiraeth? That some memories don’t fade, no matter how hard you try to bury them?

Then there’s Jacob, our 5-year-old whirlwind of curiosity and energy. He’s the kind of kid who asks a hundred questions a day and still wants more. His laughter is my medicine, his hugs my solace. He doesn’t know it, but he’s the reason I fight so hard to keep the darkness at bay.

Writing has become my way of processing the past and sharing truths that are too important to stay hidden. It started as a private journal, a way to untangle the knots in my mind. But over time, I realized that my story—my pain, my fears, my small victories—might resonate with others who feel trapped by their own secrets. It’s not easy to put these words out into the world. I often wrestle with the fear that speaking out could put my family at risk. What if the past catches up to me? What if the shadows I’ve tried so hard to outrun find their way to my doorstep?

But I’ve come to believe that some stories need to be told, no matter how difficult. Silence can be its own kind of prison, and I refuse to let fear dictate my life anymore. Writing is my way of reclaiming my voice, of turning pain into something meaningful.

Thank you for taking the time to get to know me. I hope my words resonate with you, and perhaps even help you feel less alone in your own struggles. Life is messy and complicated, but it’s also beautiful in its resilience. If my story can offer even a glimmer of hope or understanding, then it’s all worth it.

 

— Claire

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