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When I think of suicide, I don’t think of annual training slides, 22 pushup challenges, or the “thoughts and prayers” from social media posts. Instead, I think about the phone call with my mom. I think about needing to call her because I had just been told that my friend had taken his own life. 

I think about the concern in her voice when she paused to ask me if I was OK. I think of the cold, wet mud on my knees when I fell to the ground next to my truck and began to sob into the phone because I couldn’t answer. 

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