The Pain of Losing a Child: Holidays Bring Reflection

Summary

In The Pain of Losing a Child: Holidays Bring Reflection, the narrator struggles with the pain of losing a child to suicide, focusing on grief at the holidays.The author, grieving the loss of her son Dylan to suicide, finds the holiday season particularly painful. Despite attempts to distract herself, memories of Dylan intensify, highlighting the contrast between festive joy and her deep sorrow. She plans to honor Dylan during the holidays while protecting herself from traditional celebrations that amplify her pain.

Introduction

The Pain of Losing a Child: Holidays Bring Reflection offers the author’s deep reflections on grief in year three after losing her son to suicide. Caught in-between grief and attempts to cope with a grief she knows comes at the holidays, the author tries to distract herself by doing mundane tasks: reading a magazine, considering taking up a new hobby, reflecting on who she is after the loss of her son, shopping at a local fabric store.

Ultimately, these attempts at healing her deep grief and finding hope and resilience amidst the sorrow of losing a child to suicide finds the author stumbling into reminders of holidays and family, in stark contrast to her life, as is, as now, forever changed by what she cannot change: losing her son. Working through the permanence of loss and grief in year three, the author shares how she copes with navigating grief at the holidays.

Related Links

• Coping with Holiday Grief: A Guide for Parents
• I Will Love You Forever Mom
• Holiday Grief Series: Handling the Holidays After Suicide Loss
• Coping with Holiday Grief: Self-Care Tips to Navigate the Season
• Navigating Holiday Grief: Support and Strategies

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My Forever Son

Table of Contents

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The Holidays Descend: Suicide Never Ends

And so it is I checked out last night, hoisted the white flag, decided the last thing I could really do is hole up and write, knowing I needed to walk but not having the wherewithal to walk here at home on my treadmill. So off I went to pick up a frame for my Winnie the Pooh print, then over to the store to grab just one item. Ugh and well—the best laid plans of Mice and Men. Suicide never ends.

Last night, I was completely unprepared, blindsided, even oblivious to the calendar date. How can it be the end of the first week of November and my not realize it’s the holidays?

The Holidays Descend: Last night, I was completely unprepared, blindsided, even oblivious to the calendar date. How can it be the end of the first week of November and my not realize it’s the holidays?

When I got my new issue of “Cooking Light,” I actually looked at the beautifully arranged and artfully displayed array of Thanksgiving foods on a plate that spanned much of the front cover rather longingly and even contentedly. I suppose maybe I thought that since I had virtually nil by way of a “reaction” to this Thanksgiving food picture, I would be unfazed by the holidays this year. I learned last night that this is, sadly, not the case at all. 

I suppose maybe I thought that since I had virtually nil by way of a “reaction” to this Thanksgiving food picture, I would be unphased by the holidays this year. I learned last night that this is, sadly, not the case at all. 

Seeking Distraction From the Holidays

And so happily, well, not happily but seriously hoping to be distracted and learn something new by just exploring parts of the store I’d never been to, to this fabric store I went. I grabbed a shopping cart and slowly wove my way around the store. Sure, there were holiday fabrics (which is where I started), and then the carpet and upholstery fabrics which were mostly just dense weaves and beautiful in their own right.

I entertained random thoughts of “What if I learned to sew?” “What if I got a sewing machine and pursued this?” “Wish I may, wish I might know how to sew a quilt, and drapes, and you name it.” But then reality would set in and I’d come to and realize sewing is just not my thing in life. If I do anything, it’s get back to an art that I’ve called my heart and my home for most of my life, just fall deeply and completely into my music.

I felt it for the first time a sadness, a longing, the deep, deep etching on my all of losing Dylan to suicide. The holidays descend, but suicide never ends.

And so onward through the store I drifted. Frames were next—great, my reason for being there, and for the first time, I was hit with messages that resonated deep within, messages engrave, imprinted, and embossed on beautiful home décor about love, family, and hearth, the rest too painful to name. I felt it for the first time a sadness, a longing, the deep, deep etching on my all of losing Dylan to suicide. The holidays descend, but suicide never ends.

Tucking Away the Unending Pain

I tried to tuck it away, this pain that I’ve been learning to carry these past three years and four months, tried to just breathe and hurry my cart past these simple displays of framed art that for me, triggered memories of a life that was brutally and violently upended when Dylan died June 25, 2012. 

I no longer belonged to this cheery, albeit illusion, of hearth and family.

I no longer belonged to this cheery, albeit illusion, of hearth and family. My family died. My son, our big dog Bear–a 13-year-old Gordon Setter mix, our cat, Cici, a beautiful gray, green-eyed friend for 16 years. And then in June of this year, Dylan’s father.

My life echoes, resonates, with all those years, family years, growing up years, years of deep, deep love expressed in so many ways. Sometimes, I just miss everything.

They all haunt. Everything haunts. So much of me lies there, with them, that I sometimes have trouble recognizing myself here. My life echoes, resonates, with all those years, family years, growing up years, years of deep, deep love expressed in so many ways. Sometimes, I just miss everything.

I Just Want My Life Back

Still, I am so hard on myself. Still, I am expecting a point in time, an accumulation of days, months, years where I’m, I’m not sure—“okay?” “numb?” “healed?” Counselors, “professionals,” books all address a “new normal.” Maybe I am expecting my “new normal” to not include the utter heartsick despair I felt yesterday at, of all things, a simple fabric and crafts’ store.

I seemed to just be moving in slow motion, each step and push of my cart my own tortuous undoing of a masque I’ve practiced putting on and taking off so many times I had thought it’d become a part of me.

I couldn’t stop it, the descent into what for me, is the sheer blinding madness of all of my aching and crying out for my son, and in some bizarre way, I seemed to just be moving in slow motion, each step and push of my cart my own tortuous undoing of a masque I’ve practiced putting on and taking off so many times I had thought it’d become a part of me. The pain of suicide never ends.

Plan for a Holiday Exit Strategy

The Holidays Descend. Still, though, I am not where I was three years ago—raw, fresh, open, bloodied, wounded, heart gaping, all of me only able to weep, groan, moan, call out to Dylan, to God, scream, keen. Then, I didn’t-and couldn’t eat, sleep, take care of myself, pull it together enough to even go out shopping on my own.

Pain, so much pain in losing a child to suicide. I found a frame, and fretfully, doubting my choice, pulled out and then set back multiple frames, unable to choose, unable, really, to even think straight. I knew I had to get out of there.

Three years and four months of grieving have taught me to always have an exit strategy, a backup plan to escape quickly whatever the situation might be

Three years and four months of grieving have taught me to always have an exit strategy, a backup plan to escape quickly whatever the situation might be—a group of parents who would inevitably talk about their children (I’ve learned to be sort of okay for awhile in these circles and I’ve learned to share so many of my beautiful memories, the growing up years of my son). But then? Then there is always a point of maximum impact, the sudden—and horrifying—awakening in all of me that my son is dead.

A Lack of the Familiar at the Holidays

The familiar store where I’ve always shopped? Nothing more than a lost cause. I remembered out of the blue what it is I’ve been struggling to remember forever—that I needed two birthday cards and gift cards for family members. There was no avoiding anything now that I had lost my masque, my skin, now that my façade had been stripped away, my composure and assumed air of “normalcy” for the rest of the world abruptly ripped opened.

Exposed, I could only see pain: greeting cards for sons, greeting cards for sons of different ages, meaningful messages intended to show love and support for sons, funny messages intended to elicit laughter and a knowing smile, the familiarity of the mother-son connection through life

Exposed, I could only see pain: greeting cards for sons, greeting cards for sons of different ages, meaningful messages intended to show love and support for sons, funny messages intended to elicit laughter and a knowing smile, the familiarity of the mother-son connection through life. Suicide never ends.

Gift Cards Bring Back Memories Before Suicide

Gift cards were impossible. I needed a Google gift card and, of course, it was housed in the same display as were all the gift cards for young men. I reached for the Google gift card and felt the sharp pain of seeing the X-Box gaming cards right beside it. A pack of three $10 X-Box gaming cards for $30.

I couldn’t help it. My fingers reached up to and wrapped around the three gaming cards, and in a second, 20 years of Dylan’s being flopped on the couch gaming on his X-Box with one of his many friends ripped through me, flooding my sense of the present and breaking open an already shattered heart all over again. I knew I had to bail.

turned my cart. Children’s clothes, Christmas outfits. I turned the other way. Christmas cards for children. I raced to check out, walked frantically to my car, collapsed in the front seat and just sat paralyzed, unable to drive. I wanted to call someone, but whom?

I turned my cart. Children’s clothes, Christmas outfits. I turned the other way. Christmas cards for children. I raced to check out, walked frantically to my car, collapsed in the front seat and just sat paralyzed, unable to drive. I wanted to call someone, but whom?

Just who exactly would get this searing pain, this forever and permanently damaged and broken heart, my completely and utterly falling apart just because I had gone out to a couple of stores to pick up a quick couple of items? I went through my circle of friends in my mind, then my family, and then I knew it was hopeless—no one, and I mean no one (save for other bereaved parents) would and could get this intense pain. The pain of suicide never ends.

Winter Solstice Brings Relief

The sun was setting. I hadn’t realized it had gotten that late. I had forgotten we had fallen back an hour last weekend and that the skies were now darkening by 5:30 at night. By December, sigh, by December, the skies would be dark by 5:00 p.m. Winter solstice. Life in the Midwest. Long wintry days spent so much of the time in dark—and cold—and gray-tinged skies.

Last night, and herein lies my immense effort to make sense of my life post-suicide, living now, as is, as now—I chose to drive my car into the sunset. I could have headed east, but instead drove west, into the bloodied sky, sun dissolving into pinks and oranges and vivid hues we are fortunate to have this time of year.

Last night, and herein lies my immense effort to make sense of my life post-suicide, living now, as is, as now—I chose to drive my car into the sunset. I could have headed east, but instead drove west, into the bloodied sky, sun dissolving into pinks and oranges and vivid hues we are fortunate to have this time of year.

And I don’t know why, but I didn’t cry. In so many ways, I was just completely overwhelmed, all over again, different year, same overplayed, garish nightmare and my desperate attempt to make sense of what will never be made sense of.

And I don’t know why, but I didn’t cry. In so many ways, I was just completely overwhelmed, all over again, different year, same overplayed, garish nightmare and my desperate attempt to make sense of what will never be made sense of.

Oh, I suppose, when time comes, and in small increments, I’ll be able to fake at least a little frivolity, at least enough to sort of, kind of, be out and about in short doses, but I knew last night, I still can’t do holidays. Thanksgiving is coming. Family gatherings beckon. I haven’t told anyone, but I won’t, I can’t be there.

Keeping On Keeping On

Sometimes, the best I can do to keep on keeping on, to maintain my sense of my life now without my son here, on this side of wherever heaven is, is to pull back and live a different, even separate existence. I’m not sure what I’ll do for Thanksgiving this year, but I know there is “healing” in doing things differently now.

This year? These holidays? This year I will fiercely protect myself in much the same fierce way I protected my son. I will remember Dylan, and celebrate Dylan, and light candles and play music, and if I’m up to it, bake some of his favorite cookies.

This year? These holidays? This year I will fiercely protect myself in much the same fierce way I protected my son. I will remember Dylan, and celebrate Dylan, and light candles and play music, and if I’m up to it, bake some of his favorite cookies. But this year? This year after having already borne three agonizing Christmases without Dylan? This year I refuse to conform to traditions that only make me bear more pain.

It is strange to have to carve this new identity now, to tackle finding out exactly who I am by trying on and taking off roles and identities I had thought well established and for which I had taken for granted for years.

It is strange to have to carve this new identity now, to tackle finding out exactly who I am by trying on and taking off roles and identities I had thought well established and for which I had taken for granted for years.

But this is exactly where I am. I’ve already done three times, three years, the same thing as I always did and in the end, it’s yielded the same results three times, which is to stare me down, strip me of everything, and fully and abruptly slam me into the knowing that nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever be the same without Dylan right here, right now, beside me.

As the Holidays Descend

And it’s only this year where I’ve reached the point that this is okay. I am a different me. I am evolving. I’ve spent time over these past three years—and especially the first two and one-half years, dissolving all that I was when Dylan was here. I am learning to live as is, as now, in the moment, and just for today, I choose to feel less pain.

I can’t stop my now life’s journey of carrying my sorrow, even when it’s laced with what feels happy and good—and I will always miss and love and ache deeply for my son. He is always there, all the time.

I can’t stop my now life’s journey of carrying my sorrow, even when it’s laced with what feels happy and good—and I will always miss and love and ache deeply for my son. He is always there, all the time. But I can, one day at a time, make and create, when I can, a life here for myself that brings me less pain, more smiles, and even, in moments, happiness and freedom from this weight I now must always carry, the weight of losing a child to suicide.

But I can, one day at a time, make and create, when I can, a life here for myself that brings me less pain, more smiles, and even, in moments, happiness and freedom from this weight I now must always carry, the weight of losing a child to suicide.

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Author’s Note: A Poetic Quest for Healing After Losing My Son

Twelve years ago, I lost my 20-year-old son, Dylan, to suicide, a heartbreaking event that shattered my world and plunged me into a dark period of grief.

During those long months, I found myself grappling with overwhelming emotions and thoughts, questioning everything around me and struggling to make sense of what will never make sense. I entered into a deep grief filled with solitude and despair, a darkness so bleak I questioned ever being able to see light again.

In the beginning, I had no words. No voice. No ability to express the grief I was feeling.

My words were lost in torrents of tears, in stark contrast to the vibrant discussions I used to lead in my college composition and literature classes.

Perhaps it’s important to preface that I was teaching college composition and literature when I lost my son to suicide, a tragedy that shattered all of me. The irony of discussing the complexities of human emotion with my students while grappling with my own profound sorrow was not lost on me.

Each day, I faced the challenge of maintaining my professional facade, all the while battling an internal tempest that seemed insurmountable, wondering how to bridge the chasm between my role as an educator and the personal devastation I was enduring.

My Life Before Losing My Son

Books, lectures, teaching—I once felt empowered by my voice, a resonant tool for sharing ideas and knowledge. It was a time when I believed in the strength of my words and the influence they carried, inspiring others to think deeply and engage in meaningful conversations.

I reveled in the connections I forged through sharing my thoughts, feeling a sense of purpose in my contributions to the world. But when Dylan died by suicide, I felt consumed by my grief. My heart collapsed inward in sharp pain, I retreated from the outside world, and my words eluded me.

Teaching was impossible. Losing Dylan shattered my life, leaving me, on the outside at least, grappling with an overwhelming silence that echoed louder than any lecture or written page.

On the inside, I was screaming sounds I did not recognize as my own.

The Depth of My Loss Brought My Life to a Standstill

The vibrant energy that once fueled my passion for writing vanquished, and I found myself questioning everything without being able to lend voice to the confusion and overwhelming feelings I was moving through in my grief.

The depth of my loss silenced the joy I once derived from sharing my thoughts and connecting with others.

All of my life came to a standstill as I entered a place of deep grief. It is only in retrospect and in these twelve years past my son’s suicide that I see how all-consuming my grief was.

Diminishing the confidence that fuels expression, my grief stifled my voice completely. It’s been a difficult battle to reclaim my sense of self amidst such sorrow.

A Poetic Quest for Self-Forgiveness and Healing

Journaling was awkward. I couldn’t put all the pain I was feeling into words that did justice to the enormity of my heartbreak. But I kept writing. Slowly, in keeping a record of my grief, I realized I was creating a poetic journey about losing a child to suicide.

“Find Hope Here: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Healing”

Find Hope Here: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Healing is a heartfelt collection of poems and reflections by Beth Brown, the compassionate voice behind the My Forever Son blog. This poignant work navigates the deep, overwhelming sorrow that accompanies the tragic loss of a child to suicide. In her writing, Brown bravely shares her personal journey through grief, revealing how the act of writing poetry and connecting with the beauty of nature became vital sources of comfort and healing for her in the midst of such profound pain.

Through the author’s heartfelt verses, she reaches out with warmth and understanding to those who are journeying through their own sorrows. With her enchanting photography of the trees, shrubs, and flowers that grace her gardens throughout the seasons, Brown lovingly shares a beacon of hope, brightly illuminating the shadows cast by grief.

On Finding Hope: Photographing My Gardens Brings Healing

In nature, I find calm in the wake of profound sorrow and healing in the cycling of the seasons. Predictable. Beautiful in the spring, promising renewal after a long winter’s rest. Brilliant hues in the summer months. Autumn bringing trees and shrubs bejeweled in vivid reds, oranges, and reds. And then the stillness and monochromatic sketch of what can be a too long winter’s sleep.

Winter Wonderland: Captivating Photos in My Gardens

A Long Winter’s Rest for Trees, Shrubs, and Flowers

This dormant season in winter echoes the hopelessness of my grief: everything feels, looks, seems bleak and forsaken.

This dormant season in winter echoes the hopelessness of my grief: everything feels, looks, seems bleak and forsaken. An empty landscape. Gray skies for months. A blanket of snow in white, though only the stark limbs of trees and shrubs. At times, though, red berries appear on some shrubs, supplying food for birds and wildlife. All this to say I can’t see life against this wintry scene.

But in photographing nature through the seasons, I began to see (again), the brilliance of a long winter’s rest for trees, shrubs, and flowers. To study nature and botany is to realize that what appears lifeless is actually the process of life within all of nature renewing itself. Trusting in what I cannot see brings hope and healing.

Spring Brings Hope: Photographs of My Gardens

Spring Brings Beauty and Hope

Even against the cold remnants of a long winter–scattered clumps of snow, a robin redbreast plumped out to keep itself warm against a late March frost, brown dried leaves with nary a sign of color anywhere, spring breaks through. At first just small bits of color. A hint of purple as crocus push through thawing ground, then the vivid yellows of daffodils leaning towards the sun and the suddenness of blue bells. Rhododendron yawns and stretches its lavender limbs to awaken azalea, still sleepy with snow though greening beneath it all.

What seems forever gone in the gray doldrums of winter arrives with an abundance of joy come spring.

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Writing My Way Through Grief to Find Hope and Healing

Snippets of language emerged as poetic reflections

Three years into my grief, I began writing journal entries. Short. A few feelings. About my day and where I was in my grief journey. Then slowly, snippets of language emerged as poetic reflections. Words shaped the deep feelings and emotional longing in my heart, and as I continued writing, I began to find small glimpses of hope in unexpected ways.

Photographing my gardens garnered a way to coalesce all the many feelings and words I’d been unable to express. And the more I photographed through the seasons, the more glimmers of hope I found along the way.

Each poignant poem in Find Hope Here: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Healing is a dedicated blog post in its own right, replete with the inspiration behind the poem.

The poems included in Find Hope Here: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Healing appear below. Each poem is a blog post in its own right, oftentimes replete with the inspiration behind the poem.

Each poem moves the reader through the profound emotions of grief and healing after losing a child.

Many of the poems tell narratives I remember from my son’s childhood. This is significant–reconstructing the narrative of our lives during his growing-up years brings release for all the love and beautiful memories before the trauma of losing him. Writing these poems and narratives, these poetic reflections on love and loss, have helped me learn to carry love and ache together.

Still I write. Still I heal. Still I miss my son.

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From Shattered Hearts to Quiet Hope: Poems and Reflections for Parents of Suicide Loss

Find Hope Here: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Healing

If you are reading this, you know the unique and overwhelming grief of losing a child to suicide. This collection is for you—a place to find words and images that honor your pain, offer comfort, and gently invite hope.

Curated by Beth Brown, who lost her only child, her 20-year-old son Dylan, to suicide, these poems and reflections move through the rawness of early trauma, the depths of acute grief, and the slow journey toward healing, even thirteen years later. Each post pairs heartfelt writing with stunning garden photography, inspired by Beth’s own search for solace in nature’s resilience.

Hope can be quiet—listen for it in moments of rest.

You are invited to explore at your own pace. Choose what resonates—whether it’s a poem that mirrors your sorrow, a reflection that offers comfort, or an image that whispers hope. For more resources, stories, and support, visit the My Forever Son blog and discover a community that understands.

Contemplation Prompt:
Pause with a garden image. What does it say to you about survival, growth, or hope?

About the Author, Beth Brown: Writing My Way Through Grief

The love you shared endures beyond loss.

This collection is lovingly curated by Beth Brown, a mother who lost her only child, her 20-year-old son Dylan, to suicide. Over thirteen years, Beth’s journey through the depths of grief has been shaped by poetry, reflection, and the healing presence of her gardens. Through My Forever Son, she shares how nature’s resilience and beauty offer moments of solace and hope, even in the face of unimaginable loss.

Explore These Poems and Reflections at Your Own Pace

You are invited to explore these poems and reflections at your own pace. Each post pairs heartfelt words with stunning garden photography, offering comfort, understanding, and gentle encouragement for wherever you are in your grief. Select what speaks to you—let these pages be a companion on your path toward healing. For more resources, stories, and support, visit the My Forever Son blog and discover a community that understands.

Journaling Prompt:
What memories of your child bring both tears and warmth? Write a few lines, letting your heart speak freely.

You are not alone. Healing is a journey, and hope can bloom—even here.

Message of Hope:
Even in the darkest seasons, a single flower can remind us that beauty and life persist. Let these poems be gentle companions as you move through your grief.

Embracing Grief: A Mother’s Poetic Journey

From journaling to discovering the poetic language that encapsulates my grief, I penned my path to healing, culminating in the creation of my book, Bury My Heart: 19 Poems for Grief and Healing After Losing a Child to Suicide.

The anthology of poems in this book provides a profound and moving examination of grief, intricately intertwining original verses that delve into themes of loss, guilt, hope, self-forgiveness, and the path to healing. Expertly curated, the arrangement of poems invites deep reflection, serving as a treasured companion for those in search of solace and connection during difficult times.

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Professional Resources

Online Directory for Coping with Grief, Trauma, and Distress

After A Suicide Resource Directory: Coping with Grief, Trauma, and Distress
http://www.personalgriefcoach.net
This online directory links people who are grieving after a suicide death to resources and information.

Alliance of Hope for Suicide Survivors
http://www.allianceofhope.org
This organization for survivors of suicide loss provides information sheets, a blog, and a community forum through which survivors can share with each other.

Friends for Survival
http://www.friendsforsurvival.org
This organization is for suicide loss survivors and professionals who work with them. It produces a monthly newsletter and runs the Suicide Loss Helpline (1-800-646-7322). It also published Pathways to Purpose and Hope, a guide to building a community-based suicide survivor support program.

HEARTBEAT: Grief Support Following Suicide
http://heartbeatsurvivorsaftersuicide.org
This organization has chapters providing support groups for survivors of suicide loss in Colorado and some other states. Its website provides information sheets for survivors and a leader’s guide on how to start a new chapter of HEARTBEAT.

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Resources and Support Groups

Parents of Suicides and Friends & Families of Suicides (POS-FFOS)
http://www.pos-ffos.com
This website provides a public message board called Suicide Grief Support Forum, a listserv for parents, a separate listserv for others, and an online chat room for survivors of suicide loss.

Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS)
https://www.taps.org/suicide
This organization provides resources and programs for people grieving the loss of a loved one who died while serving in the U.S. armed forces or as a result of their service. It has special resources and programs for suicide loss survivors.

United Survivors
https://unitesurvivors.org/
This organization is a place where people who have experienced suicide loss, suicide attempts, and suicidal thoughts and feelings, and their friends and families, can connect to use their lived experience to advocate for policy, systems, and cultural change.

Professional Organizations

American Association of Suicidology
suicidology.org • (202) 237-2280
Promotes public awareness, education and training for professionals, and sponsors an annual Healing After Suicide conference for suicide loss survivors. In addition to the conference, they offer a coping with suicide grief handbook by Jeffrey Jackson. This booklet is also available in Spanish.

The Compassionate Friends
compassionatefriends.org • (877) 969-0010
Offers resources for families after the death of a child. They sponsor support groups, newsletters and online support groups throughout the country, as well as an annual national conference for bereaved families.

The Dougy Center
The National Center for Grieving Children & Families
dougy.org • (503) 775-5683
Publishes extensive resources for helping children and teens who are grieving a death including death by suicide. Resources include the “Children, Teens and Suicide Loss” booklet created in partnership with AFSP. This booklet is also available in Spanish.

Link’s National Resource Center for Suicide Prevention and Aftercare
thelink.org/nrc-for-suicide-prevention-aftercar • 404-256-2919
Dedicated to reaching out to those whose lives have been impacted by suicide and connecting them to available resources.

Tragedy Assistance Programs for Survivors (TAPS)
taps.org/suicide • (800) 959-TAPS (8277)
Provides comfort, care and resources to all those grieving the death of a military loved one through a national peer support network and connection to grief resources, all at no cost to surviving families and loved ones.

LOSS
losscs.org
Offers support groups, remembrance events, companioning, suicide postvention and prevention education, and training to other communities interested in developing or enhancing their suicide postvention and prevention efforts.

Online resources

Alliance of Hope
allianceofhope.org
Provides a 24/7 online forum for suicide loss survivors.

Help Guide
helpguide.org
Provides resources and tips for how to navigate the loss of someone to suicide.

Parents of Suicides (POS) – Friends and Families of Suicides (FFOS)
pos-ffos.com
An internet community to connect parents, friends, and family that have lost someone to suicide.

SAVE: Suicide Awareness Voices of Education
save.org/programs/suicide-loss-support • (952) 946-7998
Hosts resources for suicide loss survivor including a support group database, newsletter, survivor conference and the Named Memorial Program, which offers a special way to honor your loved one.

Siblings Survivors of Suicide Loss
siblingsurvivors.com
Provides resources and a platform to connect with others that have lost a sibling to suicide.

Finding professional care and support

Find a mental health provider

• afsp.org/FindAMentalHealthProfessional
• findtreatment.samhsa.gov
• mentalhealthamerica.net/finding-help
• inclusivetherapists.com
• afsp.org/suicide-bereavement-trained-clinicians

Find a provider for prolonged grief

• prolongedgrief.columbia.edu

Find additional resources for marginalized communities

• afsp.org/mental-health-resources-for-marginalized-communities

Crisis Services

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
988lifeline.org
Call or text 988 (press 1 for Veterans, 2 for Spanish, 3 for LGBTQ+ youth and young adults) or chat 988lifeline.org
A 24-hour, toll-free suicide prevention service available to anyone in suicidal crisis. You will be routed to the closest possible crisis center in your area. With crisis centers across the country, their mission is to provide immediate assistance to anyone seeking mental health services. Call for yourself, or someone you care about. Your call is free and confidential.

Crisis Text Line
crisistextline.org
Text TALK to 741-741 for English
Text AYUDA to 741-741 for Spanish
Provides free, text-based mental health support and crisis intervention by empowering a community of trained volunteers to support people in their moments of need, 24/7.

Holiday Grief Series