It wasn’t until the news of a beloved comedian’s passing hit the airwaves that I found myself asking my older siblings, “How did you explain our brother’s story to your kids?” My son was aware that I had a brother who had passed away during my youth, yet he remained clueless about the circumstances surrounding his death.
This year, International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day falls on November 22. Now, at nearly three times the age I was when my brother left us, and as the mother of two kids aged four and eight who are growing closer as siblings, I am reflecting on the heavy legacy of suicide.
As I have watched my nieces and nephews reach the age my brother was when he died—just shy of fourteen—I’ve revisited how profoundly his loss impacted me and my family. My mother had four children within five years. I came along nearly nine years later, making my brother the middle child and ten years my senior. In my younger years, I often wished to be older, eager to join my siblings in their world. Childhood felt like a mere waiting period, an obstacle to overcome before I could catch up. When my siblings left for college, I sometimes felt like an only child, isolated in my new reality.
On that fateful day in February when I learned of my brother’s death, I felt the fracture of our family unit more acutely than the loss of a brother I hadn’t known very well. I was a self-absorbed teenager while he was a young adult navigating life with a job and a car that didn’t quite fit our parents’ upscale neighborhood. In that moment, I felt more alone than ever, aware that my siblings had lost a brother they had grown up with, while I felt detached from the grief that consumed them.
Witnessing my parents’ anguish was earth-shattering. How could I begin to comprehend the depth of their pain? My mother often expressed her hope that I would never experience the heartache of losing a child. As my son approaches his ninth birthday, I realize how deeply I’ve internalized this fear, almost expecting that my children might not outlive me. It’s one reason I wished for a third child; I couldn’t bear the thought of one sibling losing the other and being left alone.
My mother once confided in me that she felt as though she lost two children when I retreated into my circle of friends. I had promised her I wouldn’t follow my brother’s path to an early death, despite having a clear understanding of depression from a young age. I had felt it within me since kindergarten, having witnessed her struggles as well. When friends asked about my brother, “Why did he do it?” I couldn’t provide answers but understood the allure of such a choice, even envying his bravery.
In the aftermath, I distanced myself from my family, unable to bear their pain. I sought solace in alcohol and other substances, viewing self-harm as a slow form of coping. Over time, after trying antidepressants in my late twenties and early thirties, I made significant lifestyle changes due to serious health issues. Eliminating gluten and dairy lifted the fog of despair, and I learned to meditate and embrace alternative healing methods. Now, nearly a decade free from medication and having navigated two pregnancies, I recognize my body’s heightened sensitivity and the role of past trauma in my health challenges. While antidepressants had been crucial for me at a pivotal time, I’ve since sought healthier, sustainable ways to manage my well-being.
Recently, I was deeply saddened to hear about the suicide of a professor from my alma mater, leaving behind two children and a husband. If the shadow of suicide looms so large over me as a younger sibling, I can only imagine the burden borne by a partner and mother’s children who might feel they weren’t enough to keep her here. Yet, I understand that in the grips of depression, one might genuinely believe they’re sparing their loved ones from suffering.
Some friends may view my protective nature as excessive—shielding my son from unhealthy foods, late nights, and other triggers that I know contributed to my struggles. I admit to a certain fear of losing him to unseen battles. I’ve intentionally avoided discussing my brother with him, not wanting to plant any seeds of despair. I am acutely aware that my son is fortunate to be shielded from violence and trauma that so many children face, but the scars of surviving suicide linger.
During a rare beach getaway, my husband shared the news of the comedian’s passing, and as he explained it in vague terms, I found myself spiraling. Mourning both a childhood icon and pondering how to navigate discussions about my brother with my son weighed heavily on me. The television in our hotel room played tributes while I searched for guidance from my sisters on how to approach the subject of our lost sibling. Luckily, my husband deftly steered our son away from the more graphic details.
As we drove home, the soundtrack of Frozen played in the background, and I was struck by Anna’s hopeful plea to her sister, “Do you want to build a snowman?” It was a bittersweet reminder of unfulfilled connections. I felt a wave of understanding wash over me as I reflected on what it meant for my siblings to lose their brother, someone their own age. Watching my children bond in the back seat filled me with joy, yet I couldn’t shake the worry of how they might cope if faced with loss.
I’m grateful for my sisters, who provide insight into how they discuss our brother with their kids. And while my brother bears the weight of survivor’s guilt, he has been a pillar of support in my life. The love shared between my children serves as a reminder of the brother we lost, and I strive to navigate my fears, hoping for a brighter future for my kids.
If you or someone you care about is struggling with suicidal thoughts, please reach out for help. For more resources, visit the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.