The author of this article requested anonymity for fear of harassment.

Content warning: This article contains references to suicidal ideation.

By week four of fall quarter, I had decided I was going to kill myself. Thoughts of ending my life had consumed me for months, and by then, I was certain. My friends noticed the signs and were deeply concerned. One night, a friend encouraged me to visit the Bridge. 

That visit saved my life. 

It was my first time seeking support there, and I was met with nothing but sincere care and patience. The live-in staff sat with me for 10 hours — 10 hours — from 8 p.m. until well after 6 a.m., when I had been encouraged to get further care at the hospital. Their unwavering presence and understanding gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. 

Contrast that with my experience when the live-ins and I contacted CAPS together, in an effort to connect to a higher level of support. All that CAPS advised me to do was simply draw something in order to distract myself. That moment reinforced what I already felt — the importance of the Bridge and the unique value of peer-run crisis support. The Bridge provides real, compassionate, person-first and immediate care. The three Bridge volunteers who supported me that night offered a level of comfort and reassurance I have not encountered from any other Stanford organization or office. 

There is something truly special about the Stanford student experience that the Bridge staff understand — something that the University does not seem to fully appreciate, given their hesitation to fund the Bridge. Without the Bridge, the live-ins, and its 24-hour support, I would simply not be here today. Knowing that this space exists continues to offer me immense comfort, even now, as I continue to heal and grow. Peer support in times of crisis is irreplaceable. 

Today, I am happier than I have ever been, and I quite literally owe my life to the Bridge and its live-ins. The Bridge saved me. Defunding it would deny the value of that fact. I sincerely hope Stanford does not choose to deprive its students — my friends, my peers, me — of this life-saving resource. 

Recently, I have been returning to this poem: “To the Young Who Want to Die” by Gwendolyn Brooks. 

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. 

The gun will wait. The lake will wait. 

The tall gall in the small seductive vial 

will wait will wait: 

will wait a week: will wait through April. 

You do not have to die this certain day. 

Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. 

I assure you death will wait. Death has 

a lot of time. Death can 

attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is 

just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; 

can meet you any moment. 

You need not die today. 

Stay here—through pout or pain or peskyness.

stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. 

Graves grow no green that you can use. 

Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

That night at the Bridge, one of the live-ins told me something that has stayed with me: the uncertainty of life is a source of excitement. It is full of so much potential for good. There is always the possibility of getting better — but you will never know unless you see it through. 

And it does get better. Tomorrow is better. And I would not have been able to discover this truth without the Bridge.