I still mother them….

One year ago today I got a phone call that honestly still does not feel real even as I sit here writing this.

My friend Lesa’s brother, Mark, died by suicide.

Even typing those words feels heavy.

My immediate reaction was there is absolutely no way. Not Mark.

Mark was one of the funniest people I knew. Silly in the best possible way. He loved his kids and his family with every fiber of his being. He took being a dad seriously in a way that always stood out to me. Some people say they love being parents. Mark lived it.

Years ago he had on a Wu-Tang shirt and I, in one of the most embarrassing moments of my adult life, told him I was surprised he liked anime music.

The man nearly collapsed pretending to be horrified.

For years after that he sent me random Wu-Tang pictures, memes, shocked faces, ridiculous texts. Every single time I laughed because I now realize Wu-Tang and anime music are about as far apart as two things can possibly be.

That was Mark though.

Funny. Light. Present.

I had the honor years ago of marrying him and his wife as their celebrant. Anybody who knows me knows I do not drive over bridges. I avoid them like my life depends on it. So when Mark asked me what it was going to cost him to get me there, I told him it was going to cost him an Uber across the bridge.

And he got the Uber.

Me and Gianna climbed in and went to marry them.

Looking back now, that memory feels even more sacred somehow. One of those little snapshots life gives you that you do not realize at the time will someday sit inside your heart differently. It reminds me that I was woven into their story for a moment. That somehow our lives crossed in a meaningful enough way that I got to stand there for one of the happiest moments of his.

What people do not understand about deaths that happen outside of natural causes is that the people left behind often want to protect the person they lost. We want to hold the details so tightly inside ourselves because the world can be cruel with things it does not understand.

Not because we are ashamed.

Because we know how quickly people reduce somebody down to the way they died.

And when somebody cannot defend themselves anymore, that feels unbearable.

Lesa and her family have done something incredibly brave. They have talked openly about Mark’s suicide. Honestly. Publicly. Without pretending it did not happen.

That matters more than people realize.

At Pike Creek Dental we have done Suicide Awareness Month. We wear the shirts. We talk openly about mental health. And in doing that, another coworker was able to say out loud that she lost her fiancé to suicide too.

That is what happens when people feel safe.

The silence breaks a little.

People want answers after suicide because our brains desperately want to make impossible things make sense. So the questions come.

Didn’t you know? Was he depressed? Could someone have stopped it? How did nobody see it?

But the truth is, I do not know that suicide is something the human mind will ever fully understand.

We cannot fully understand the level of mental pain somebody must be in for their brain to convince them that not existing anymore feels like the best option. Imagine hurting so deeply that your mind tells you your family would somehow be better without you. That the people who love you most would be relieved from your existence.

That is not selfishness.

That is suffering.

And I think sometimes people forget that mental illness can be fatal.

Lesa knew my kids. She knew them well. She has always been somebody who could talk honestly with me about them. We could laugh. We could say the hard things. She never once acted uncomfortable saying their names or talking about addiction or grief.

That matters too.

I talk all the time about my village, about my girlfriends, about safe people. This is exactly what I mean.

There is something profoundly healing about being surrounded by people who can hold the ugly parts of life without flinching. People who do not need everything wrapped up neatly to stay in the conversation.

Today also made me think again about places like Sean’s House.

Every single time I walk in there, there is this feeling that is hard to explain unless you have experienced it yourself. Safety. Real safety. Not performative. Not forced. Just a place where people can breathe.

Our kids are growing up in a world filled with pressure and comparison and constant noise. Phones. Social media. Opinions. Expectations. Information twenty four hours a day. It honestly must feel impossible sometimes to feel emotionally safe.

I am grateful for Sean’s dad for creating something beautiful out of unimaginable pain.

And I am grateful for my friend Angela, because this work is her life’s work. She sees helping people not as a burden but as a privilege. She is proud of the statistics, proud of the lives being saved, and she should be.

Places like Sean’s House keep families from getting phone calls like the one Lesa got.

Maybe if we talk openly about mental health today, the next generation will grow up understanding there is nothing shameful about asking for help.

Maybe if we stop whispering about depression and anxiety and suicide, kids will stop feeling like they have to hide their pain until it swallows them whole.

Maybe if we keep having uncomfortable conversations out loud, we raise people who are not afraid to say, “I am not okay.”

Because there is nothing shameful about mental health.

The shame has always been the silence.

And I wish more people understood that judging somebody for how they died is just another form of cruelty. Another form of bullying dressed up as opinion.

We have to do better than that.

We have to talk more honestly. Listen more carefully. Love people louder.

And we have to remember that every single person is so much more than the worst moment of their life.