In This Circle, Together: Reclaiming Life for Long-Term Survivors of Suicide Loss

It never fails. This time of year, I feel the shift in my body, my heart, and my brain. My family and I feel the impending date. And we do so every year.

Almost 13 years ago, November 12, 2011, a tsunami hit my family. On that day, my 19-year-old son Brian died by suicide. He was my youngest child. Brian was every parent's dream child. He was a great kid. Unfortunately, through his later teenage years, he struggled with depression and anxiety. We didn’t talk about it much. I think Brian felt he needed to protect us from his deepest pain, until he no longer could.

I equate Brian’s death to a tsunami that struck our family, friends, and our community. The life we once knew had disappeared in an instant. Nothing made sense. I wondered how the world could still be turning, while ours had abruptly ended.

I’m now considered not only a survivor of suicide loss, but a long-term survivor of suicide loss. The way I feel and process this unimaginable loss changes from year to year.

After almost 13 years without Brian, my brain tries to tell me I shouldn’t be so sad. It whispers, “Ann, you should be ‘all better’ by now.” But I have to remember to trust my heart. It always speaks the truth.

I remind myself that time may not completely heal all wounds. We process the pain, and with the right support, it becomes manageable. But six, sixteen, or sixty years, the grief is still there. For many, the grief becomes softer, a little more gentle to the heart. For some, it may not be until many years later that the grief can be discovered, uncovered, and processed.

It’s okay when the tears creep up and out, unlocking the dam of grief to allow the hidden pain to swim to the surface. That pain is simply our love with no place to go.

I know that despite the years, I need to give myself permission to take moments to grieve, to mourn, to feel, and to remember. I need to remember that surviving the traumatic loss of a child to suicide, even years later, requires continual effort to attend to and process: to be mindful of my feelings when they rise up, and as they shift and evolve over time.

Over the years, I’ve learned that connection with others who’ve experienced a loss by suicide was what I so desperately needed. The American Foundation for Suicide Prevention provided that connection. The AFSP community listened to my story, and helped me realize that my story doesn’t end. I’m grateful to have discovered our local AFSP chapter, as well as people in the national AFSP headquarters I call family. Through support initiatives such as the Healing Conversations program and International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day events, both in-person and virtual each November, AFSP helps ensure that those who have lost someone to suicide have the care, support, and community they need.

AFSP’s Long-Term Survivors of Suicide Loss Summit, held every two years, is another way I have continued to sow the seeds of my healing.

This past July, I attended the event, this year held in Austin, Texas, as both an attendee and as a presenter. I was tasked with leading a workshop on how I not only have navigated the road as a survivor of suicide loss, but also on how I was able to start the Brian Dagle Foundation, a nonprofit my family started to support the healing of grieving adults as well as to provide community education on mental health and suicide awareness.

This event was exactly what I needed at this point in my grief journey. It was an opportunity, as a long-term survivor of loss, to tend to my needs, give myself permission to unlock forgotten emotions and feel my feelings, so I will continue to heal.

They say that healing from this sort of loss isn’t linear, and I’ve found that to be true. On the outside, it often appears as if I am doing wonderfully. And it’s true: most of the time, I am. Despite the unimaginable loss of my son, I have found gifts of meaning and purpose. I’ve discovered a way to intertwine love and loss.

But I also remember that the origin of all this meaning and purpose is the fact that my son died — and that is something that will never be forgotten.

I have learned to accept the unacceptable. Sometimes my heart is heavy, and I need to advocate for what is best for me. Sometimes, saying no to something is what is best, such as not attending a family event when the evidence of the empty chair is just too painful.

I had a particularly profound experience during a breakout session on the final day of the Long-Term Survivors of Suicide Loss Summit. There was a Drum Circle in which everyone in the room — close to 200 people — were given an instrument to bang or hit. As everyone had shared and learned so much over the course of the previous few days, we were ready for this! With the guidance of the Circle’s leaders, we made incredible music. Some even danced.

As I looked around the room, I saw that people were smiling, laughing, and letting go of the heaviness of the weekend. Tears started to come.

I gradually realized that what so many of us were experiencing were tears of happiness, joy, and incredible gratitude, for so many reasons. Reasons like giving myself permission to honor my grief, and feeling the reassurance that time does not evaporate our loss completely — it is always with us — but that it changes. The circle unlocked powerful, complex emotions as we cried in response to the collective courage and vulnerability exhibited by everyone who attended this unique event, sharing and openly expressing grief, and admitting together that there are days when it’s okay not to be okay.

Witnessing this pure yet complex joy was inspiring, to say the least. I thought, “Wow. Look at us. It is not in spite of our loss, but because of our loss, that we are who we are — beautiful humans whose love knows no boundaries, and who do deserve to live our best lives, in tandem with our grief and our loss.”

I share this experience for fellow survivors of suicide loss who are reading this now. I acknowledge your grief, and want you to know that you, too, can find pure joy, and gain the understanding that you deserve to live your best life. Live for yourself, and for the person you’ve lost, and in recognition of all those who share this experience that will shift and change over the years.

We are in this circle, together.

Click here to learn more about AFSP resources for survivors of suicide loss.

Read about another person’s experience at The Long-Term Survivors of Suicide Loss Summit, in the article, “Compassion, Clarity, and Connection: Providing Comfort and Support at the Long-Term Survivors of Suicide Loss Summit.”