3 Months of My Journey

Three months ago today, I lost my son to suicide—words I never imagined I’d have to write.

And yet, here I am, trying to navigate a life with an enormous hole in my heart. I’ve joined a club no parent ever wants to be part of.

Moving through the world after losing a child is unbearably painful and gut-wrenching. Many people say, “I can’t imagine.” Please don’t try. It’s horrendous. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

My days are long and empty—full of dread, nausea, and an aching longing to see my son again, even just for a moment (though I know that would never be enough). The days are full of tears, regrets, heartbreak, and endless should-have/would-have thoughts. But life doesn’t stop or slow down to let you catch your breath. It’s not fair. And it’s not fair to watch your other children lose their brother, your husband lose his son, or your parents lose their grandchild. The pain is everywhere. You can’t outrun it—not even for a second.

And then, there’s the fact he died by suicide.

I know that word makes people uncomfortable. I know, because some of you don’t know what to say to me—and you’ve told me that. And that’s okay. I don’t always know what to say to me either. Maybe you worry that you’ll say the wrong thing, or that I’ll start to cry—and I might. That’s just an honest response. This is hard as hell, and I cry all the time. But please know I appreciate the gestures you do make.

What I hope isn’t happening is silence because he died by suicide. That word still carries so much stigma. Some people believe suicide is selfish, weak, or even a sin. I’m here to show you it’s not. I’m here to show you the incredible amount of compassion and courage it takes just to carry on.

But first, I want to tell you about Austin—my FE 20-year-old son.

Austin was loved beyond measure, and we miss him every second of every day. He had a heart full of kindness and compassion. He was smart—maybe too smart for his own good!—and wildly hilarious, though I think his dad was the only one who fully got his sense of humor. He loved watching soccer and kicking a ball around the house. He enjoyed video games with his friends and connecting with Bella (who I know you’ve all heard about). He was sensitive and felt things deeply. He came from a loving and supportive family that he cared about immensely. We lovingly called him “The Boy.”

But Austin also struggled with his mental health for the past seven years. While that does not define him, it certainly shaped him. As a family, we did everything we could to support, protect, guide, and love him. But he was in a darkness deeper than we could reach. His mental illness convinced him that this was the only way to escape the pain.

In the short time since his passing, I’ve learned a lot about suicide—and I want to share some of that with you.

“Suicide is not a choice the way most of us think it is. A brain overwhelmed by suicidal thoughts is not functioning as it normally would. It’s not freely choosing—it’s been hijacked by pain so severe it warps perception. This isn’t poetic metaphor. It’s science.

When trauma or severe depression takes hold, the brain’s ability to process rational thought becomes compromised. The prefrontal cortex—responsible for judgment and decision-making—shuts down. The amygdala, which regulates fear and distress, becomes overactive. Serotonin levels plummet. It’s chemical. It’s neurological. And it makes the world feel unbearable.

In that moment, it’s not that someone wants to die. It’s that they can’t see any other way out. The future collapses inward. The pain becomes all-consuming. And their mind, once a safe place, becomes a prison.

People often say, “But they had so much to live for.” And that’s true. But the illness doesn’t let them see that. It distorts reality so completely that the love, hope, and possibility that seem so obvious to everyone else become invisible. It’s not weakness. It’s not selfishness. It’s the unbearable weight of a mind at war with itself. This is why death by suicide is not simply about choice—it’s about the way suffering manipulates the brain, how pain rewires perception, and how, in the darkest moment, the mind stops being a refuge and becomes a prison.”

summarized by Toni T

Losing someone to suicide is terrifying and devastating. I understand why people shy away from talking about it. But we have to. Mental illness is real. It doesn’t discriminate. It affects people of all ages, races, genders, and walks of life. Depression and suicidal thoughts don’t always look how you expect them to.

We saw Austin. We knew the signs. We took the trainings. We had the conversations. We built a circle of care around him.

But even with all of that—we still lost him. Because the system is flawed. The cracks are wide. And as my daughter so clearly put it: “Sometimes the help doesn’t help.”

That’s a heartbreaking truth. One we now live with. One we will never fully heal from.

And so, I will keep talking about Austin. I will keep telling his story. I will keep spreading awareness about mental health and suicide—because we all need to.

Please, talk to your people. Check in on each other. Be honest. Be vulnerable. And if you’re the one struggling—please, reach out (call or text 988) And if you ever need someone to talk to, I will hold space for you.

Because it takes a village to live.

And it takes a village to grieve.