Shannon and the Gift

A Dark Start of 2026

On Saturday, January 17, 2026, I went to the homegoing service of good friend and leader of my writing group, The Etchings in Time Writing Community, Shannon Martin. She overdosed on January 7^th 2026. The service was lovely. Pictures of her beautiful smile were posted everywhere, a slideshow of her wonderful life played, uplifting songs were sang, and everyone truly cherished the memory and life of Shannon.

I was on the program to read a piece of writing I wrote for Shannon, called “I know, Shannon.” Because I did know, I do know. I understand the depths of a great depression that can convince a beautiful brilliant woman like Shannon that the only option left in her life is to take her life.

I spoke before on my experience of writing groups, both good and bad. Shannon was (and is and always will be) an excellent leader of the Etchings in Time Writing Community. She was foundational in me becoming the writer I am today.

My 2019 undergrad graduation. Shannon came to support me graduating. She always had that beautiful smile.

Before Shannon, and the Etchings in Time Writing Community, I was unrecognizable to the person I am today.

I couldn’t meet people’s eyes.

I had no self-confidence.

I had no self-esteem.

I thought my writing sucked and was trash.

Shannon changed all of that.

With Shannon’s guidance, I learned how to meet people’s eyes when talking, how to have confidence in myself, how to write bravely. She even gave me the ability to stand on stage, and read to a crowd.

So I wrote a piece on Shannon to read at her homegoing service. If she was alive to hear her own eulogy, I know she’d have praised it.

Here’s what I wrote on January 15^th, and read aloud at Shannon’s homegoing on January 17, 2026.

I know, Shannon.

I know what it’s like to be in that dark place where all the colors have turned grey, and there doesn’t seem to be anyway out.

I wish I knew you were in that place, Shannon.

I know what its like to put on a smile, and say “I’m fine” while on the inside, you’re screaming.

I wish I knew you were wearing that mask, Shannon.

I know what it’s like to have a running stream of thoughts to end it all, and you can’t hear God’s voice anymore.

I wish I knew you were thinking those thoughts, Shannon.

Did you know, Shannon, that I know?

I know what it’s like to feel so unloved. I know what it’s like to think my life doesn’t matter. I know what it’s like to think no one would care if I didn’t exist anymore.

I know Shannon. But I wish I knew you felt that way. But I didn’t know. And now I can’t tell you that I know. I also know you’re not gone. I know you’re resting peacefully in the arms of the Lord our God.

Shannon, I still wish I knew, I wish I knew how you felt. But I know its okay. Jesus is with you now, and you’re not suffering anymore. I know that as described in 1 Thessalonians 4:13–14, that Shannon is asleep, will come again through Jesus, and I will see her on that day. So I do not have to grieve as others do who have no hope. I have hope, we all do.

See you then, Shannon.

Writing this piece, I began crying. So I had to pause and catch my breath before I kept writing. I finished it, and stepped away for about a day. I came back the night before the funeral, about 11ish, and edited it, and practiced reading it aloud.

At the homegoing service, I practiced staying calm so I wouldn’t get tearful. I kept looking away from people crying, because seeing people cry makes me cry. I didn’t go visit Shannon’s body one last time, because seeing my dear friend in a casket again would make me break down. I didn’t watch them close the casket, because I remember seeing them close the casket at my grandma’s funeral nearly made me lose it.

So I kept looking away, looking away, and avoided watching all the mourning, so I could read my piece without any tears.

It was my time to read, so I went up there, kept my eyes down at my piece (though I know it’s better to read looking up to make eye contact, I just wanted to read, and get back down) I read “I know, Shannon” and finished within the 2 minute timeframe.

I got a round of applause after I read, and went to sit down. The funeral eventually wrapped up, and when it was almost time for the recessional, one of the family members gave me his contact information because he wanted a copy of my piece.

I had printed two copies just in case anyone had wanted it, so I gave him one. My mom had already suggested that I definitely give one to Shannon’s 18 year old son.

It was time for the repast, and I decided to go to the bathroom first. A woman there eagerly approached me, hugged me, prayed over me vehemently, and gave me a whole sermon on being “fearfully and wonderfully made,” that I have to walk with my head up, and that there is no one like me.

I got pulled to the side multiple times, uncountable times, of people thanking me, hugging me, blessing me. I was showered with love for what I wrote. I ended up collecting a list of emails of people who wanted me to send them the piece I wrote.

Honestly…one of the last posts I made was about how I had little confidence in my writing, and thought my writing was trash. This homegoing service, reading my writing aloud, and everyone afterwards telling me how beautiful my writing was, how much it affected them, thanking me for writing it, hugging me, telling me how honest it was… I can’t tell myself my writing is trash anymore.

My writing isn’t trash. I may have low moods, and doubts, and feel wishy-washy about the quality of my writing, but its certainly not trash. The amount of love poured on me and my writing I will use to combat that self-hatred that sometimes rises up in me. The hugs I received, the smiles I got, the profuse compliments, the support that people gave me. These were people I’ve never seen before but they rallied around me like we’ve known each other for years.

Bonded by my writing, loving my writing, moved by my writing. And I say “my writing,” but I write because of God. God sowed into my being a gift of writing, a love of writing, a desire to write so strong that I write every day without fail.

So it wasn’t me that they were drawn to, that their support, that they love…but it’s the voice of God that they are hearing through my writing. I pray before each writing session, and if I forget to pray before I write, then I pray after I write. So it’s all God.

And I thank everyone who’s supported me so far, and I thank everyone who’s continued to support me, and those who will support me.

And I thank you Shannon. Thank you for supporting me, thank you building in me a foundation to become the writer I’ve started to become, and the writer I’m continuing to be.

I wish you were here to see where else I’m going to be. I also wish you would see where your son will go on to become. I wish you would have grown old together with your husband. I wish your parents hadn’t had to bury another child. I wish I knew you were wearing that fake smile. I wish I had been able to reach you.

But these wishes, these thoughts, theses hopes, they can’t reach Shannon anymore. They can reach someone who’s still here, still struggling, still fighting. The voices in your head can be so loud they drown out everything else. I know. I once had a voice that said kill yourself over and over and over, to the point I couldn’t hear anything else.

I tried to jump out of a moving car. Literally, I unbuckled my seat belt, unlocked the car, and tried to jump out while my mom drove at 70mph heading to my psych appointment. She had to hold onto my arm to keep me in the car, while I begged her to let me go, so I could just…jump out and get run over to death.

Those voices can be so loud that insist that you should just end it.

Think about it.

Who exactly would benefit from you just ending your life? Probably someone who doesn’t want you to keep living. Someone who would rather you didn’t share with the world the gift God gave you.

The Holy Bible is very clear we have a clear and present enemy who roams the world seeking whom he may devour, and according to Ephesians 6:12 that we don’t fight flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. You may not believe, and that’s fine, but it won’t hurt to talk back next time you hear the voice encouraging you to hurt yourself, hate yourself and kill yourself, and say no to it, because that’s not really your thoughts, and it’s certainly not of God.

So talking of the enemy who will benefit if you end it all, you really do have a gift, God does give us all gifts, innate gifts for all of us. Even if you haven’t discovered it yet. A gift of ministry, the gift of testimony, the gift of speaking well, gift of being able to reach others, the gift of prophecy (just knowing what will happen sometimes, not like fortunetelling) or other gifts, such as gift of art, music, storytelling. And you use these gifts to help others.

If you feel you don’t know your gift, you can ask God to reveal it to you. Or if you don’t believe in God, but still want to know what you are innately good at it, start trying out different things wholeheartedly. Choose something you’ve always been interested in, and work hard at learning it. Give yourself a reason to stay.

So, to wrap this post up, Shannon Martin, the leader of my writing group Etchings in Time Writing Community took her own life and overdosed on Jan 7^th. I went to her homegoing service on Saturday, Jan 17^th and I wrote a piece that I read aloud. After I read a lot (and I mean a lot) of people pulled me aside to thank me for what I wrote, I got 3 separate people who prayed over me and blessed me, and I got a list of emails from people who wanted me to send them the piece. I received such an outpouring of love and support over me and my writing that it convinced me to never call my work trash again. It was heartbreaking saying goodbye to Shannon, who was a beautiful woman and a brilliant writer, yet a genesis for me. I’ll keep writing with my gift and give my writing to the world. Find your gift, cultivate it, and start sharing it. After all, you don’t keep a gift to yourself, right?

Thank you for reading, and until next time,

A. E. Costello.