Thanks for so openly sharing your healing journey Rea. I am always struck by how you hold your truth here…clearly recognising that the impact of Emile’s death will always be with you, alongside a determination that life will and does go on. I find this very helpful. I’m not going to call you brave because I know it doesn’t feel like that. But there is choice in how we navigate our lives after this tragedy and you show us this. Thank you x
This moved me deeply. Thank you for putting words to a grief that so many are too afraid to speak aloud. I am currently working on a piece about suicide and suicidal ideation, and I’ve been terrified to share it—afraid of causing more pain to those who love me. Your honesty reminds me that truth, even when heavy, can be a balm for someone else’s silence. I’m so sorry for the loss of your beautiful Emile. Your love and resilience shine through every word. Namaste. 🕊️💔
I had a West Point classmate who trained with me as an infantry paratrooper and ranger. After two years he petitioned the pentagon for permission to take leave to enter medical school, After graduation and residency he was assigned as brigade surgeon to an armored unit in Vietnam. While in service, appalled by the endemic racism and brutality, he turned against the war and was eventually discharged. On his return to the US, his marriage fell apart. He eventually remarried and with one son from his earlier marriage had two more children, a son and daughter. He became a pediatric psychiatrist and superintended a clinic. His youngest son died of cancer. His older son committed suicide--a fine, shy, handsome young man I only met once when he and his father ran the New York Marathon. He eventually gave up psychiatry and turned to the transcendental, becoming an ordained minister before the end of his life 9 years ago. He wrote 5 well-received books of essays and always sought to help others. Despite his disenchantment with the Vietnam War he never disavowed the army or West Point. His last public act was to officiate at his daughter's wedding. He is buried between his two sons. Nonetheless, in memory, he survives, indomitable.
Yet he survived and moved on. At our last meeting at West Point 19 years ago to participate in a seminar on "Uncommon Courage" he said , defiant, "They lied to us!"
This certainly captured my experiences of losing my own son to suicide. I never found a parents of suicide victims support group and now I wonder why I never thought to seek one out. Thank you for your honesty regarding your experiences.
Respectfully, that hasn't been my experience. My wife doesn't like to talk about our son's death with anyone (she's fine with me talking about it), while I've made a website about our son's death. But that's just me. I've found openness to be the best policy as it's helped with my healing.
Over the past six months, I've been on forums on Reddit, but I never thought to join them shortly after my son died. It just never occurred to me to seek out other parents of suicide victims initially.
I appreciate the opportunity to share our differing experiences and to support each other.
Thank you for opening your heart and sharing something so sacred and raw. Your words hold the weight of unimaginable pain—and the quiet strength of survival. I can’t pretend to understand the depths of what you’ve lived through, but I feel the love, the ache, the honesty in every line.
I read your story slowly, with quiet reverence. Some words don’t just speak — they stay. And yours truly stayed with me.
There is no language vast enough to contain such a loss. And yet, you’ve found a way to carry it — without adornment, with a truth that hurts and heals at the same time.
Your story is more than a testimony of pain. It’s a quiet testament to the courage it takes to stay alive. To breathe again, slowly, from the ashes. Not to forget — but to live.
Thank you for writing it. Because your words are like a small light for those walking through the dark.
Thanks for so openly sharing your healing journey Rea. I am always struck by how you hold your truth here…clearly recognising that the impact of Emile’s death will always be with you, alongside a determination that life will and does go on. I find this very helpful. I’m not going to call you brave because I know it doesn’t feel like that. But there is choice in how we navigate our lives after this tragedy and you show us this. Thank you x
Thank you, Esther. I didn’t think I would ever reach this stage, but we do. Sending peace and love. ❤
Peace and love three times back
Tenfold back at you, Jolene. ❤
This moved me deeply. Thank you for putting words to a grief that so many are too afraid to speak aloud. I am currently working on a piece about suicide and suicidal ideation, and I’ve been terrified to share it—afraid of causing more pain to those who love me. Your honesty reminds me that truth, even when heavy, can be a balm for someone else’s silence. I’m so sorry for the loss of your beautiful Emile. Your love and resilience shine through every word. Namaste. 🕊️💔
Thank you for your kind words, Kirsten. Namaste.
Much love to you, Rea. So much more than these words could even read ♥️
Thank you, Jenny. Sending love and peace. ❤
Love and peace right back, Rea ♥️
I had a West Point classmate who trained with me as an infantry paratrooper and ranger. After two years he petitioned the pentagon for permission to take leave to enter medical school, After graduation and residency he was assigned as brigade surgeon to an armored unit in Vietnam. While in service, appalled by the endemic racism and brutality, he turned against the war and was eventually discharged. On his return to the US, his marriage fell apart. He eventually remarried and with one son from his earlier marriage had two more children, a son and daughter. He became a pediatric psychiatrist and superintended a clinic. His youngest son died of cancer. His older son committed suicide--a fine, shy, handsome young man I only met once when he and his father ran the New York Marathon. He eventually gave up psychiatry and turned to the transcendental, becoming an ordained minister before the end of his life 9 years ago. He wrote 5 well-received books of essays and always sought to help others. Despite his disenchantment with the Vietnam War he never disavowed the army or West Point. His last public act was to officiate at his daughter's wedding. He is buried between his two sons. Nonetheless, in memory, he survives, indomitable.
That’s heartbreaking, Irving. To lose two children will break a parent.
Yet he survived and moved on. At our last meeting at West Point 19 years ago to participate in a seminar on "Uncommon Courage" he said , defiant, "They lied to us!"
This certainly captured my experiences of losing my own son to suicide. I never found a parents of suicide victims support group and now I wonder why I never thought to seek one out. Thank you for your honesty regarding your experiences.
I think women more readily seek out other women hurting, where men tend to keep it private. Thank you for being here, Aaron.
Respectfully, that hasn't been my experience. My wife doesn't like to talk about our son's death with anyone (she's fine with me talking about it), while I've made a website about our son's death. But that's just me. I've found openness to be the best policy as it's helped with my healing.
Over the past six months, I've been on forums on Reddit, but I never thought to join them shortly after my son died. It just never occurred to me to seek out other parents of suicide victims initially.
I appreciate the opportunity to share our differing experiences and to support each other.
We all handle things differently. I wanted to talk to someone because my husband never did. The groups I belonged to was mostly mothers.
I understand, Aaron. There is no wrong or right way to grieve.
Rea, I have no words. I'm remembering Emile and am a witness to his existence. This was a brave piece to share and a harder on to write. X
Thank you, Mark. x
Thank you for opening your heart and sharing something so sacred and raw. Your words hold the weight of unimaginable pain—and the quiet strength of survival. I can’t pretend to understand the depths of what you’ve lived through, but I feel the love, the ache, the honesty in every line.
Thank you for understanding, Mymy. <3
I deeply admire your strength and the level of wisdom you've reached to talk openly about it. You're a warrior, Rea! ❤️
Thank you for being here, Valle. ❤
Oh my, Rea, that essay must have been difficult to contemplate writing, let alone to write.
You are in my thoughts, I hope you, by writing this essay, can find more peace. And are further helped, on this new chapter.
With love
I found the peace. Thank you, dear Mark. ❤
You are still in my thoughts, Rea. Take care & thanks
You are still in my thoughts, Rea. Take care & 🙏
Thank you for sharing your grief and healing journey, Rea. You touch others through your writing and heart. Sending love and care.
Thank you, Jen. Sending back love. ❤
Sending you and Marco so much love.
Emile must be so proud of you—for your courage and honesty and the ways you reach and help others with your words.
Thank you for your beautiful support, Stephanie. ❤
You are simply an incredible person, Rea– you shine through the pain with wisdom, strength, bravery, love!!
Sending you a warm hug and lots of love❤️❤️❤️
Sending love back, Diana. ❤ ❤
Thank you!
🫂💞 Peace and love to you Rea.
Thank you, Debra. Peace and love back. ❤
Dear Rea,
I read your story slowly, with quiet reverence. Some words don’t just speak — they stay. And yours truly stayed with me.
There is no language vast enough to contain such a loss. And yet, you’ve found a way to carry it — without adornment, with a truth that hurts and heals at the same time.
Your story is more than a testimony of pain. It’s a quiet testament to the courage it takes to stay alive. To breathe again, slowly, from the ashes. Not to forget — but to live.
Thank you for writing it. Because your words are like a small light for those walking through the dark.
With deep respect and gratitude,
Dora🙏🏼❤️
To breathe again, slowly, from the ashes.
This is so beautifully said. Thank you, Dora! ❤
Oh Rea...grief changes, that's for sure. It has not dulled your light, and we have to be thankful for that.
Hugs and all things lavender-infused from me to you.
I love the lavender-infused. Thank you. ❤