On Monday night, 24-year-old Marshawn Kneeland ran a blocked punt into the end zone, scoring a touchdown for his Dallas Cowboys, amid the deafening roar of 80,000 home crowd fans and before the eyes of millions of people watching around the country.

On Thursday morning, he was gone by his own hands.

He was a young man living his childhood dream, someone at the pinnacle of his profession, less than two years removed from signing a contract of nearly seven million dollars for the most popular franchise in the NFL. He had the respect of teammates and coaches, the adoration of a rapid fan base, and the love of his family, girlfriend, and friends.

As the time-worn saying goes, Marshawn Kneeland had everything to live for.

But his death reminds us that for so many who wage a relentless battle with mental illness and depression, everything sometimes isn’t enough.

For some of us pressed up against the thick darkness in our own heads, there is no amount of money in the bank, no level of career success, no depth of love around us that can let enough light in.

As someone who has dealt with his own lingering sadness for the past four decades, I’ve spent more time than I care to admit near the place where the desire to keep going had gone; days when I had exhausted the options; when I’d read all the books, taken all the meds, done all the therapy, touched all the grass, prayed all the prayers, sat through all the pep talks—and was still staring into the abyss.

And in every one of those lightless moments, it didn’t matter that all the objective evidence of my life testified that I should be happy, that I was fortunate, that I had so much to be grateful for, so much to want to live for—none of that registered in the moment, none of that tipped the scales toward hope.

The dire story I told myself didn’t require data. It never does.

That’s what people don’t understand about those of us who live with the inner monsters: intellectually, we realize that this makes no sense, which is often part of the problem. We have chronic pain with no discernible source, and so we hurt and we feel stupid for hurting. Telling us how much we have to live for and how good our lives are sometimes makes us feel worse.

For many people unencumbered by mental illness, life can be a daily battle to stay positive.

For people with severe depression, life can be a daily battle simply to stay.

Having walked with so many survivors of a loved one’s suicide, I know that right now Marshawn’s teammates, family members, friends, and girlfriend are likely rewinding through their stories with him, wondering where and how they could have done something differently. They’re likely beating themselves up trying to figure out how they could have listened more carefully, offered better words, somehow found a way to reach into his heart and love him alive a little longer.

But I hope they’re not doing that.

I hope they know that mental illness doesn’t play fair.

It doesn’t respect status or treasure accolades, and sadly, it is not healed by love, no matter how true and clear and relentless that love is.

For those walking alongside someone who fights the battle in their own heads, yes, do all you can to speak kindness and share resources and secure treatments. Fight like hell for them, try to help them see the beauty and goodness you see in them, and never give up trying to find a way to send light into the dark places.

But realize that no one can go all the way into the sadness with us.

Marshawn Kneeland had everything to live for.

Most of the people who leave this life prematurely have everything to live for, too.

But with mental illness, sometimes everything just isn’t enough.

(If you are struggling to stay, please reach out to someone. You are worth fighting for.)

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