Losing someone to suicide hits different. It’s a pain that’s hard to put into words—full of questions, guilt, and a sadness that settles deep in your bones. If you’ve been there, you get it. The “whys” keep you up at night, the “what-ifs” play on repeat, and the “if onlys” feel like a weight you can’t shake. The road ahead looks blurry, and it’s easy to feel like you’re walking it alone. But you’re not. Even in this mess, there’s hope.
Twenty-six years ago, I was a 13-year-old kid, pumped to spend the night at a friend’s house. Then it happened. Some of you’ve heard me share this; others haven’t. My mom took her own life. Her struggles were brutal—addictions beyond belief, a way out that seemed lost. I saw it all: the tears, the frustration. Get drunk or not to get drunk. She’d buy alcohol, drive home, then chuck it out the window because the tug-of-war between right and wrong was tearing her apart. Yes, she battled. Yes, she was an addict. Yes, she didn’t always choose wisely. But she made beautiful choices too. She took us to church. Deep down, she knew Jesus brought hope. I’d see her weep, desperate to break free, trapped but still reaching. She’d have us pray with her. She’d spend her last dollar to help someone in need. Struggling doesn’t mean you don’t love Jesus. It doesn’t mean you’re not trying. You can love Him and still struggle.
That night changed everything. I thought I’d never smile again. I’d sit in restaurants, mad at people laughing while I couldn’t. The pain deserved to breathe, though. People don’t always know what to say about suicide, and the silence stings. But your grief needs air—felt, talked about, wrestled with. Jesus gets it. He’s “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). He’s not far off; He’s right here, holding every tear.
Then there’s the guilt. Could I have done more? Seen something? Said something? It’s a trap I know too well. But their choice wasn’t ours to make. Romans 8:1 says, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” God’s grace swallows those what-ifs. Let it go, friend. Let His love carry you.
Grieving doesn’t mean your faith’s weak—it means you loved hard. I’ve wondered how to keep going, but Scripture says we don’t “grieve as others do who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). We don’t have all the answers, but we’ve got a God who’s close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). He’s holding my mom, your loved one, and us too.
Don’t go it alone. I wanted to hide when it hurt that bad, but God made us for community. Find your people—a friend who listens, a pastor who prays, someone who gets it. Look for a church that’s all in, one that’ll do whatever it takes to reach people, no matter how messy life gets. That’s where I found hope again—people who didn’t give up on me. Reach out today, even if it’s just a text. Healing starts there.
God doesn’t waste your pain. My mom’s story, my story—it’s not just loss. It’s how I learned to help the ones others give up on, love the ones who frustrate you. Share your struggles; it’s how hope spreads. Back then, I didn’t see it, but now I do: God uses what we go through to reach others. We’ve got a real enemy—“Be sober-minded, be alert. Your adversary the devil prowls like a roaring lion, looking for anyone he can devour” (1 Peter 5:8). He wants to destroy you. But Jesus? He’s TRUE freedom. “Let us run with endurance the race set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith” (Hebrews 12:1-2).
When it’s too heavy, look up. This isn’t the end. Jesus beat death and promises to “wipe away every tear” (Revelation 21:4). One day, all this brokenness gets made new. Hold on.
If you’re in this valley, I see you. Your pain matters, your grief’s real, and there’s hope for your soul. Jesus is with you, step by step, His love carrying you through.
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