There is something I’ve wanted to write about for a long time. It’s a story about someone who became my friend.
Her name is Juliette.
When I met her, she was a real estate agent and showed us one particular house three times. There was a lot to love about it, albeit it was pricey. It also had no basement and no garage. Still, I really loved the layout and the beautiful neighborhood. We already owned a house but wanted a different one, and Juliette would have gotten our listing, so she would earn a commission twice.
I was in my early thirties at the time, and she was in her late twenties. We became friends. She’d visit my house, and I visited her once when her children were in school. She had such an artistic eye for creating cozy yet unique spaces. Her home was small but darling.
Over time, when she visited, she started confiding in me. She told me she suffered from severe depression and had attempted suicide several times with pills. This remained an ongoing struggle for her. She described what her deep depression felt like: she used the word Blackness—severe Blackness. She would tumble into Blackness.
She explained that this stemmed from terrible traumas during her childhood and other difficult experiences. I listened without judgment and let her share whatever she needed to say. At the time, I couldn’t fully grasp what she meant by Blackness, so I asked if she’d help me understand. She tried to explain, but Blackness was the only way she could describe those moments when she hit bottom and considered attempting suicide. She was seeing a psychiatrist, but she didn’t connect with him.
She never appeared depressed when we were together. If she hadn’t told me about her struggles, I never would have known. She was funny sometimes, pleasant to be with, and kind.
She brought it up occasionally—not just once, but several times. Juliette was beautiful, kind, sweet, and truly good.
She also confided that while her husband made excellent money, he constantly pressured her to earn more through real estate. She shared things he said that made her feel inadequate for not succeeding in that field.
This made me think about the house we loved. We hadn’t fully decided on it, but I found myself wondering if buying it would help her. It seemed we were the only ones showing interest in her listings.
Still, after weighing the pros and cons and running the numbers multiple times, we had to decline. The house needed significant work, and we couldn’t justify the additional investment. I felt guilty for not being able to help her, but it simply wasn’t financially feasible for us.
She said it was fine. “Don’t worry about it.”
Still, I was concerned because of her history of depression and suicide attempts.
A little more than a week later, I was reading our local town newspaper. When I reached the obituaries, I saw her name and picture. I cannot express what that was like—even now, writing this, I feel the pain. My immediate thought was: If only we had bought that house, she wouldn’t be in this obituary section. Maybe my husband and I could have worked out the financial details. I kept thinking about what we could have done differently.
I felt deeply guilty. I read her obituary over and over. It was long ago, but I remember. When I later visited her house, her husband told me he didn’t get home in time to save her from the pills she had taken.
For a very long time, I believed that if we had bought the house, she would have felt encouraged, lifted out of depression, and also had my house listing to sell. I was heavily weighed down by guilt.
Intellectually, as time passed, I considered the facts: she had made several attempts. I knew about her depression, the traumas, and her husband’s pressure on her to make sales. Yet I still felt I had let her down as a friend. But by then, there was nothing I could do. Her children were very young, two beautiful little girls. Juliette was beautiful, kind, sweet, and everything good. She deserved a full, healthy life, watching her children grow.
Over the years, I’ve thought about her from time to time. As it turned out, we now live one street away from her darling house, which was sold shortly after she died. I still walk and drive down that street and see her house. It’s as charming as ever.
It wasn’t until I joined the Alliance of Hope Forum and read so many posts that I began to understand something: Juliette’s history of attempts and the details of her life (there’s more I didn’t share here) showed a deep pattern of struggling. I still cannot say with absolute certainty there was no connection between our declining to buy the house and what she did afterward. I can see that if she had been healthy, she would have moved forward. But she wasn’t healthy. I can say that now.
Over these years, the pain of losing this sweet friend doesn’t overwhelm me the way it once did. It has lessened significantly. Writing this story now, of course, brings it back to life. I feel very sad as I write this, but I’m grateful to have a safe place to tell it. Sometimes we simply need to tell our stories, especially these kinds of stories—and this is the place.
I want to end by saying this: I have come to understand that we cannot save those with the history Juliette had before I knew her and while I knew her. We can’t always prevent what they choose to do. Forgiving oneself is difficult. That is mostly what I have done by now.
Thank you for listening.
