The Power of Three Digits: Lives Behind 988

A Night That Nearly Ended

At 2 a.m., Sarah sat at her kitchen table staring at the clock on the microwave. She hadn’t slept in days. Just hours earlier, she’d gotten the call no one ever wants: her partner had died unexpectedly. The grief had been instant, sharp, and suffocating. Now, in the stillness of the house, with her children asleep upstairs, she felt the weight of despair pressing down like a stone.

Her mind wandered to the bottle of pills in the bathroom cabinet. She thought about how easy it would be to stop the pain. Then, like a flicker of light, she remembered a number she’d seen weeks earlier on a billboard: 988. Three digits, as simple as 911, but for people in mental health crisis.

Her hands shook as she dialed. The phone rang once. Then came a voice.

“Thank you for calling. I’m here with you. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

The words cracked something open. For the first time all day, Sarah wasn’t alone. She sobbed, trying to explain, her sentences broken and tangled. The counselor on the other end didn’t interrupt. They just listened, occasionally offering small anchors—“I hear you,” “That must feel overwhelming,” “I’m here with you.”

Minutes turned into nearly an hour. Together, they talked about her children, about how unbearable the night felt, and about what might help her get through the next few hours. The counselor asked if she could call someone she trusted. Sarah agreed to let her sister come over. Before hanging up, the counselor connected her with a local grief support group, and promised a follow-up call the next day.

The pain didn’t vanish. But for Sarah, that single call was the difference between spiraling into silence and finding a way to endure.

A Veteran Finds His Voice

Thousands of miles away, James, a Marine Corps veteran, wrestled with a different kind of night. Sleep never came easy. Nightmares from deployments often jolted him awake, heart racing, body tense, unable to shake the images of friends lost in combat.

On one particularly bad night, James found himself pacing the living room floor. He considered calling 911, but what would he say? He didn’t want the police showing up at his door. He didn’t want to end up in an ER, explaining himself to yet another stranger who didn’t understand military culture.

Then he remembered hearing about 988. He dialed, pressed “1” for the Veterans Crisis Line, and within seconds, was speaking to a fellow veteran.

“You’ve been there,” he said in disbelief after just a few minutes. “You actually know what I’m talking about.”

That conversation shifted something for James. Instead of swallowing his memories in silence, he spoke them out loud to someone who could relate. The counselor not only helped him de-escalate that night but also linked him to a local VA program specializing in post-traumatic stress treatment. For James, the call was not just about survival—it was about reclaiming a piece of himself that had been buried under years of trauma.

When Panic Becomes Breath

For Addison, a college sophomore juggling classes, work, and mounting anxiety, panic attacks had become a terrifying part of daily life. One night, as she sat on the floor of her dorm room gasping for air, convinced she might be dying, she remembered her RA mentioning the new crisis number.

She dialed 988 with trembling hands.

On the line, a counselor spoke slowly, coaching her through each inhale and exhale. “You’re safe. Breathe in through your nose. Hold. Now out through your mouth. Let’s do it together.”

Minute by minute, Addison felt her chest loosen. She was able to slow her racing thoughts and eventually sit up. “I was able to calm down enough to recognize my surroundings,” she later shared. “That call gave me the break I needed to feel like I could get through the night.”

What surprised Addison most was what happened after. The counselor didn’t just hang up once she felt calmer—they talked through strategies for managing panic, and she left the conversation with resources she could use the next day. For her, 988 wasn’t just an emergency line—it was a bridge to ongoing resilience.

The Numbers Behind the Stories

Sarah. James. Addison. Three different lives, three different crises, but one common thread: three digits that made all the difference.

Since its launch in July 2022, 988 has fielded over 16.5 million calls, texts, and chats (American Hospital Association). In May 2024 alone, more than 610,000 interactions were recorded, up more than 30 percent from the year before (National Council for Mental Wellbeing).

Evaluations show the impact is not just statistical but deeply human. Nearly 98% of suicidal callers say the call helped them, and 88% report it prevented them from acting on suicidal thoughts (National Library of Medicine). That’s millions of people who found a reason to hold on.

And awareness is growing. By mid-2025, about 74% of Americans had heard of 988, a dramatic rise from fewer than 20% in its first year (NAMI).

The Challenge: What Happens Next?

But while the stories are powerful, they also reveal the system’s biggest vulnerability: what happens after the call ends.

For Sarah, the counselor made a referral to a grief support program—but would that program actually receive the information in time? For James, the connection to a VA service mattered, but not every veteran is guaranteed such a warm handoff. For Addison, coping strategies helped in the moment—but what if she needed long-term therapy and hit a six-month waitlist?

This is the “last mile” challenge. 988 is a doorway. But too often, the hallways and rooms beyond are fragmented. Counselors make referrals that disappear into the ether. Mobile crisis teams respond without access to a caller’s history. ERs and behavioral health clinics don’t share notes. People who bravely dial 988 risk falling right back through the cracks.

Empowering the Last Mile

That’s where organizations like Converge Health focus—not on answering the calls, but on making sure the system works after the call.

• When a counselor enters referral notes, we help communities design the data pathways so that information securely reaches the right provider.

• When a mobile crisis team is dispatched, we work to ensure they know the context, not just an address.

• When someone like Sarah needs social support—housing, food, or financial assistance—we help design the interoperability so social care agencies get the referral without delay.

This work isn’t flashy. It doesn’t make headlines. But it’s the glue that ensures the promise of 988 isn’t just a lifeline in the moment—it’s a bridge to care that lasts.

Why It Matters

The stories of Sarah, James, and Addison show us what’s possible. They remind us that crisis can strike anyone, anywhere, and that a human voice can change the outcome. But they also highlight the unfinished work: building systems strong enough to carry people beyond survival.

Because the point of 988 isn’t just to save someone tonight. It’s to ensure they are supported tomorrow.