A widow, a storage unit, and $500 walk into a breakdown.

I'm safe, but I'm standing at the edge of a mental health cliff I never expected to face. I lost my husband to cancer, and now the storage unit holding everything from our life together is about to be auctioned off. I'm fighting to survive and heal, but I need help to keep from losing what little remains.

⚠️ Disclaimer:

This is not a suicide note. I am not in immediate danger. I'm writing this in full awareness, with full effort, asking for help to prevent a predictable crisis that I know could put me in a very dark place. I use dark humor because that's how I cope. I'm okay right now, but I'm trying not to not be okay.

I was never suicidal before I lost Curtis.

He was my husband, my best friend, and the person I built my life around. When cancer entered our world, everything changed. Not just in a "we cried a lot and leaned on each other" kind of way—but in a "we were homeless during treatment" kind of way. We spent months living out of suitcases, dragging our belongings through hospitals, getting kicked out of waiting rooms, taking buses to get groceries, and praying we’d have the strength to do it all again the next day.

I carried everything. Emotionally, physically—literally. Two suitcases. A tote bag strapped to the top. Bottled water. Groceries. A walker. And him. I carried Curtis with everything I had, because he couldn’t carry himself. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.

But now, I carry the aftermath. Alone.

I didn’t know what PTSD was back then. I didn’t know that someone outside of war could be changed on a brain-chemical level. I didn’t know about cortisol or fight-or-flight or what trauma could do to a person’s ability to function. Now I do.

What I’m asking for might seem small: $500 to pay off my storage unit today.

But it’s not just a storage unit. It’s our wedding. His letters. His games. His handwriting. The last apartment keys. His scent on old t-shirts. It’s everything we had when we had nothing—and now it’s all I have left of him.

Every time this unit is at risk, I spiral. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to heal. I’ve finally found an EMDR therapist who takes my insurance. And, believe it or not, I’ve somehow landed in the most incredible relationship of my life. Jeremy loves me in a way I didn’t even think was possible. He loves me broken and messy and healing. He didn’t tell me to get my life together—he just loved me, and somehow that made me want to try.

Loving him made me realize I might actually have a future. Which is wild, considering I used to think the highlight reel of my life had already rolled. So now, I’ve made a goal: to go through everything, sort it, and have a huge garage sale in September during Frontier Days. Not because Jeremy suggested it—he didn’t. But because his love made me want to fight for more.

And I’ll say this, just to keep it light: apparently the price of saving my sanity, history, and future is $500. I always thought I’d be worth a little more, but hey—clearance rack queen, baby.

People offer suggestions: “Can’t you just move the stuff?” “Put it in someone’s garage?” “Why do this to yourself again?”

Because it’s not that simple.

Because when you’ve spent months hiding in hospital corners with your dying husband and your life in two bags, control over those last remnants becomes sacred. It’s trauma-wired. It's not about logic. It's survival.

I don’t want this fundraiser to become an annual thing. I’m working toward a goal: to finally go through everything, sort it, and say goodbye to this trauma vault—on my terms. Maybe even enough to get a car. Maybe a job. Maybe peace. One miracle at a time.

So here I am. Asking again. Because it’s hard. Because it’s humiliating. Because it’s necessary.

And let me be honest—I hate asking for handouts. It eats at me. So I tried to avoid it by using my last $100 to buy nearly 400 pounds of camping supplies I thought I could flip to cover the storage payment. Spoiler alert: turns out I'm better at trauma survival than reselling gear.

So if you’re someone who’d rather donate and get a little something in return, I’ve got tents, sleeping pads, camp bags—honestly, my garage now looks like I'm about to start a camping cult, kidnap a troop of Boy Scouts, or launch the world's saddest survival prep bunker. (For the record, I do love camping—just not quite this much.). If you donate and want one, message me. Because then I'm not technically asking for help... I’m just running the world’s saddest pop-up shop.

If you can help—even $1—it makes a difference. If you can share, please do. If all you can offer is a prayer, I’ll take that too. I just need this door to stay closed—literally and metaphorically—until I’m ready to open it myself.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for not looking away.

P.S. If you'd prefer to donate directly (especially since this is due today), my Cash App is $Sarah91203. It gets to me instantly, and I can use it immediately to stop the storage unit from being auctioned. GoFundMe donations are absolutely still appreciated and will help me stabilize things long-term.

—Sarah