As I reflect on how far I’ve come in my healing journey, I think about the struggles I endured to reach a place where happiness and peace felt possible. For a long time, I believed they weren’t. Depression had taken hold of me for several years. On the outside, I was functioning, I went to work, made meals, and took care of my responsibilities. But inside, I felt empty. Flat. Lifeless. My thoughts were consumed with one question: What could I have done differently? Grief, I’ve come to understand, is a form of love. In those first years, I didn’t know what to do with my grief—with the love that felt unexpressed, trapped inside my heart. I tried to bury it. I didn’t want to cause pain for anyone else. Carrying it alone felt heavy, but I was determined not to burden others with my despair. It took years of research, lived experience, therapy, and deep self-healing for me to realize something profound: suicide loss requires connection. It requires community. It requires an outlet. So often, we hesitate to reach out. We fear others won’t understand, won’t be supportive, or may judge us. We tell ourselves we shouldn’t burden anyone with our pain. But in doing so, we isolate ourselves in the very moment we need connection the most. This is why this community matters. Here, I want us to speak openly about suicide loss—freely and without judgment. I want us to build the kind of support that many of us didn’t receive from those who haven’t experienced this kind of pain and hopefully never will. The truth is, I love my sister. And because of that love, I will always carry this grief. The difference now is that I no longer carry it alone. I am willing to let others in. To seek support. To be seen. Because maybe, just maybe, when we share the weight together, the heaviness in our hearts can finally begin to breathe.

I used to wonder if my sister loved me enough to stay on this earth. I questioned whether she cared… whether she knew it would be me who found her lifeless. For many years, I carried feelings of betrayal, anger, and deep resentment. Until one day, my perspective began to shift. My sister was very ill. Her brain was not functioning the way it needed to. After her first breakdown at 18, she was diagnosed with multiple mental health conditions. As a baby, she had seizures. As an adult, she struggled with addiction. At the time of her passing, she was also going through a separation from her husband. There was so much pain surrounding her life. I remember feeling angry at everyone. Angry at my parents—for not getting her help sooner, for not fully accepting the depth of her struggles. Angry at her husband—for not being able to support her when she needed it most. And most of all, angry at myself—for not knowing what to do, for not knowing how to help her. I had already graduated, but I wasn’t yet practicing as a therapist when she passed. Like so many others, I found myself trapped in the words: “If only…” If only I had become a therapist sooner. If only she had accepted treatment. If only she hadn’t experienced so much trauma. If only she hadn’t struggled with addiction. If only God had helped her. I was even angry at God. I couldn’t understand why this had happened. But over time, the anger began to soften. Slowly, it was replaced with compassion… with understanding… with faith. I came to see that my sister was fighting battles that were far bigger than what love alone could hold. Her mind was in a place I could not reach. And in time, I reached a difficult truth: What happened was her choice. Not a choice I would have ever wanted. Not a choice I would have ever accepted back then. But a choice, nonetheless. Holding on to anger only kept me trapped. It distanced me from my family, from myself, and from any possibility of peace. Healing required something different.

The answer is yes—we are capable of experiencing happiness again. But it’s not a straight line. It’s more like a spiral. Grief is part of the human experience. And when we lose someone to suicide, we experience a profound and often unexpected tragedy. For some, this loss happens more than once. It can leave us asking: Will I ever truly recover from this? The answer isn’t simple or linear—but there is hope. This past February marked the 9th anniversary of my sister’s passing. During that time, I found myself reflecting on where I am in my own healing. I realized I was ready to share my experience, my strength, and my hope as both a suicide loss survivor and a therapist. Grief, for me, has been a spiral of emotions, experiences, and lessons. It has brought deep questioning—about life, death, and the will to keep going. At the same time, it has expanded my gratitude for life and deepened my awareness of how essential mental health truly is. This loss also brought new layers of trauma—ones that required me to seek support, to do my own healing work, and to keep showing up for myself in difficult moments. At some point, I made a decision: I wanted to reclaim meaning from my tragedy. And now, I want to help others do the same. When we begin to create meaning from our pain—when we allow our experiences of grief and loss to shape growth—we don’t just heal. We also create space for others to feel seen, supported, and empowered in their own journey. This process takes time. It takes patience. And it takes a willingness to keep moving, even when grief pulls us back. I am still on this journey—and I have been for many years. But now, there is something different. Now, I have you. We are building something together—a space of support, community, and tools to help us navigate this path. Thank you for being here. My hope is that you feel welcomed, understood, and not alone. This is just the beginning of our journey together—and I’m truly grateful you’re here. 💜 -Vane

Have you ever had a day where everything piles up? Your physical health feels off. Your mind won’t slow down. And suddenly, you’re questioning every choice that led you to this point. Now imagine not just one of those days… but several in a row. Weeks. Months. Maybe even years. When people experience suicidal thoughts, intentions, or plans, this is often how their days feel— physically, mentally, and emotionally depleted. It’s not just one thing. It’s the accumulation. Pain from the past. Pressure in the present. Fear of the future. All stacking on top of each other until it becomes overwhelming— until suffering turns into desperation. I often try to bridge compassion and understanding when I think about my sister. I can only see things from my perspective— not from hers. And yet, the questions come: How many times do we feel angry because their choice impacted our lives? How many times do we wonder if they cared about us when they decided to leave? Was this a conscious decision? Or a moment of unbearable pain? And ultimately… why? The question “why?” is one of the most painful questions we can carry. Because there is no complete answer. Some loved ones leave letters. Some leave messages in their art. Some leave traces of themselves behind. And some… leave us only with questions. The silence of that unanswered “why” can feel unbearable. On my hardest days, I find myself understanding more of what they may have felt. Not agreeing. Not choosing it for myself. But understanding. Because even a few days of feeling that low can be hard to carry— I can’t imagine what it’s like to live there for weeks, months, or years. And while I would not make that choice— because I know the pain it leaves behind— I can still hold compassion. I can still wonder. And maybe, in that space between love and grief, I find myself slowly accepting… that I may never fully understand why.

Thank you for being on this journey of healing together, you are no longer alone with grief. Please introduce yourself and let me know what you would like me to write more about, talk more about, research more about. This space is for you and I to work together, side by side. I would love to hear from you. With endless love, Vane 💜