For me, that moment was when my daughter, Nikki, tried to take her life during her first year of college. Even now, years later, the weight of that day still sits in my chest. Her attempt wasn’t successful, but the emotional scars from it follow her—and me—into the present.

It seems just like yesterday even though it has been years when Nikki began college. I remember the excitement she had, we all had, as she began her new journey. And just as clearly, I remember how quickly that excitement was swallowed by darkness.

At the time, we openly talked about her loneliness, her depression and her pain. We put a plan in place for local counselling, coming home weekends, getting involved in activities other than the track team she was on and transferring to another school.

We had a plan. But the truth is, our plan didn’t work because we didn’t have the awareness needed.

So, when Nikki desperately reached out after her suicide attempt, she turned to me for the help she needed. I did what any mother would do, I moved fast to find the answers.

In my rush to give her that help, I accepted the professional advice given without question. Nikki trusted me, so she followed the path I believed would be the best for her–one that would help her. That path led her straight into a prescription‑based treatment plan. Actually, the only plan anyone offered us at the time.

What made it harder was knowing that years earlier, when she was barely a pre-teen, I had pushed back against medication. I had asked for answers, for clarity, for a real explanation of why she supposedly needed a drug treatment plan. But the conversations were always the same: “This drug will help Nikki.” No diagnosis. No testing. No exploration of underlying conditions. Just a repeated promise that medication was the solution.

And when she finally did follow the protocol years later, nothing had changed. Still no specific diagnosis. Still no testing for underlying conditions. Just the same vague assurances that medication was the answer.