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On a summer morning 10 years ago, I woke up early, sick with worry. “Call Megan,” were the words spoken to my mind.

So, I did. I called my older sister.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m in the hills by mom and dad’s house,” she said in a shallow voice. “I can’t do this anymore … I just can’t do this anymore,” she repeated over and over.

“I’m coming,” I told her. “Hold on. I’m leaving now.”

Right then, we lost reception, and I didn’t know what to do. So I packed a bag of clothes, my two small children and my very pregnant self into our minivan and made the three-hour drive to meet her in the hills near my parent’s home.

Where in the hills, I wasn’t sure, so I kept driving along a road until it ended. Seconds later, Megan emerged from the wooded area wearing no shoes and looking like a shell of what once was a vibrant, confident woman.

During our conversation that day, I found that she had spent the night in the hills, contemplating life and whether it was worth continuing on.

Despite my efforts that day and the days and weeks following, I would find myself delivering the eulogy at Megan’s funeral just two short months later.

To read the full article on Deseret News, click here