To the Ones Who Show Up

The Kind of Perseverance We Don’t Talk About

Reflecting on perseverance this week, I realized how narrowly I’d defined it—goals, accomplishments, grit in sports or school or work. But there’s another kind of perseverance. The kind that doesn’t come with trophies or accolades. The kind shown by a friend who shows up, again and again, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s dark.

We’ve all seen the mugs and posters urging us to push through: “When you’re going through hell, keep going.” Or, “One more call. One more rep. One more win.” But nobody talks about the person who takes one more late-night phone call from someone struggling. The friend who listens when the words run dry. The one who still shows up, even when empathy feels used up, and there’s no Marvel-esque theme song to rally you back to your feet.

Most motivation is directed inward. But when we can’t find it within ourselves, we reach out—and it’s that friend who answers. The one who becomes a sibling in spirit. The one who helps you climb out of the well, again and again. Sometimes they’re also the ones left holding the pieces, carrying the grief while making sure everyone else is okay. That, too, is perseverance.

When Friendship Becomes the Lifeline

Many of us know what it feels like to walk beside a friend through something heavy. To see, even before they do, how serious things have become—and to know that you are suddenly out of your depth. You realize help is needed. And asking for it might risk the friendship. You feel that sinking dread that something could go very wrong. It’s terrifying.

Friendship felt easier when we were five—when it meant sharing snacks or playing tag. No one prepares you for what it means to hold someone together when they’re falling apart.

We Were Just Kids, But We Knew Something Was Wrong

I was in college when we noticed a friend stop eating. She’d often ask us if the food was good while pouring milk on her plate so she wouldn’t be tempted to take a bite. A group of us began to notice it more and more, quietly talking about how to help. It hurt to listen to the way she spoke about herself—words that came from a place of pain, not truth. We watched her tear herself down with a kind of painful conviction, speaking about herself in ways that no one should—but that she clearly believed. We worried when she genuinely expressed how life would be easier without her.

We took turns walking with her, sitting beside her, trying to build her self-esteem in whatever small ways we could. We never left her alone in the dining hall or the bathroom. She eventually caught on to us and deployed a whole new set of diversionary tactics. That’s when we realized we were in over our heads. We sought help. And what we learned made us feel even more helpless—the long-term risks to her health, the limited resources available through the school, the slow-moving response.

Eventually, we witnessed firsthand the root cause: her older brothers, who took advantage of her good nature and made verbally abusive “jokes” about her looks and her weight. Her parents were oblivious to how deeply it affected her. We went to the counseling office one last time and shared what we had learned. When they reached out to her family, she turned on us. And while I understood her anger, I remember backing away—tired, scared, and frustrated.

I still cared. But I was done. She was finally getting help now. And though we still saw each other, eventually our paths diverged. I stand by what we did to help. But life had handed us something far too big to hold, and the friendship didn’t survive.

The First Time I Saw It Up Close

I was managing a store when one of my employees showed up late. I was frustrated—until I saw her face. She wasn’t alone. She and a group of friends came in together, visibly shaken, and as they started talking, my irritation faded fast.

They told me that one of their close friends had died by suicide the day before—he had hung himself in his basement. As they talked through the previous day—the laughter, the normal routines, the sense that maybe he was finally doing better—I heard the heartbreak and confusion in their voices.

I listened as they asked the impossible questions: Why didn’t I see it? What if I’d done something different? The guilt they felt for enjoying their night while their friend was suffering was palpable.

He’d seemed lighter in those final days, like someone turning a corner. But the truth is, depression can be a cunning, brutal force. It’s not always sadness—it’s often self-hatred. It tells you lies so convincing that you can’t feel the love around you. It becomes a voice that argues against your worth.

These teens had tried. They’d listened. They’d offered help. And now they were grappling with the awful truth that sometimes, even when you do everything right, it still ends this way. Their hearts were broken. But they had no blame—only love. I hope they knew how much they mattered to him, even if he couldn’t say it.

My Son Did the Hard Thing—And It Cost Him

My son, far too young, once had to make the kind of decision most adults avoid. A friend had started saying things—serious things—about not wanting to live anymore. My son didn’t brush it off. He told his friend he took those words seriously, and he meant it. When his friend made a small but real attempt, my son followed through. He took action, alerting the adults who could step in. It was a risk.

The friend was angry. He cut my son off, threatened him, and never spoke to him again. The others in their group, who had also heard the warning signs, quietly thanked my son afterward—but none of them stood up for him when the fallout came. It hurt.

But my son did the right thing. He spoke up. He said, “I hear you. I believe you. And you matter.” He cared enough to act—even when it cost him the friendship.

That’s what real love looks like. Not waiting for things to get worse. Not ignoring the signs. Just showing up and doing what you can, when you can.

And while I wish it hadn’t come at such a cost, I couldn’t be prouder of the strength it took to do the right thing anyway.

When It Happens Later in Life

It doesn’t get easier with age. When someone you’ve known for decades chooses to leave, the loss feels enormous. You don’t just grieve the moment—you grieve the whole shared history. All the life you lived together: milestones, marriages, raising children side by side, road trips, the late-night calls, the inside jokes, the pranks you never told anyone about.

You think, But we were supposed to grow old together.

And yet, the darker side of mental health doesn’t always fade with time. Sometimes, no matter how much love is offered or how deep the friendship runs, the weight inside them is too heavy. You can’t always reach it.

It’s a devastating reminder that even long-standing relationships can’t always protect someone from their private battles.

But before those losses, there are often quiet efforts—acts of love made behind the scenes by the people who refuse to give up.

What Real Friendship Looks Like in the Dark

There’s always that one friend. The one who coordinates with the family to get help. The one who keeps trying to find solutions, even when it seems like nothing is working. These are the friends who become family. The ones who pull you out of the dark hole, again and again.

They juggle their own lives—jobs, kids, relationships, responsibilities. And still, they show up. No hero music. No applause. Just love in its most persistent form.

This week, I’m thinking about those friends. The ones who persevere not for glory, but out of love. Who keep showing up because your life matters to them.

They don’t need recognition. But they deserve it anyway.