In college, my friends and I did nearly everything together. We camped, went to the beach, saw live music and played far too much Mario Kart. We were young and newly independent, exploring a place that still felt unfamiliar and wide open.
We were also hurting.
I think that was part of what pulled us together. Each of us carried something heavy, though we rarely named it. We knew how to make each other laugh, fill a weekend and stay up too late. We did not know how to talk about pain or what to do when it began taking over someone we loved.
One friend, whom I will call Austin, moved between periods of sadness and cheerfulness. At his brightest, he had a smile that seemed to stretch across his whole face. Tell him about a song you loved and he might learn it on guitar for you. He listened. He helped. He gave people a place to stay when they needed somewhere safe to land.
Near the end of our senior year, something changed. A darkness settled over him. He withdrew, drank more and pushed us away with precision. He knew what would hurt each of us, and he used it until distance felt like the only choice left.
We were barely beginning to understand our own struggles. We had no idea how to reach someone who seemed determined not to be reached.
About a year after graduation, our group had scattered. Then one friend sent me an Instagram message. He needed to tell me something heavy.
Austin had died by suicide.
My mind immediately filled with questions. I think it was trying to protect me, grabbing for anything more manageable than the truth.
Then came another terrible task. The friend I had been closest to had not heard yet, and I agreed to tell her by giving her a call. I found the place in my house where I felt safest and brought my dog with me. When she answered the phone, there was no gentle way into it. I simply said the words.
Guilt moved into every corner of my grief. Should I have pushed harder when Austin tried to drive me away? Should I have contacted his family? Why had I found support and healing after college when he had not?
I even felt guilty for grieving. His family had lost a son. What right did I have to be shattered?
Suicide loss can make grief feel like a courtroom where you are both witness and defendant. The mind keeps returning to the evidence, looking for the moment when a different word, call or decision might have changed everything. But love does not make us all-knowing. Friendship does not give us the power to save another person by ourselves.
For a long time, I did not know where to put my memories of Austin. Our old group was no longer close, and talking about him to people who had never met him felt strange. How could I explain the person behind the news? How could I make room for his enormous smile, his guitar and the safety he offered others?
Eventually, I made room anyway.
I built a playlist from the songs he once burned onto CDs for my ancient car. I looked through photographs. I told stories about him to people who would never know him except through me.
Those small acts restored dimension to a person whose entire life had begun collapsing in my memory into one devastating moment.
We often talk about recognizing warning signs, asking direct questions and helping people find support. Those conversations matter. We should also make room for those left behind, many of whom carry guilt, stigma and questions that will never be answered.
Say the person’s name. Ask who they were. Listen to the funny story, the complicated story, the story that has nothing to do with how they died. A life should not be reduced to its final chapter.
When I think of Austin now, his death is no longer the first thing I see. I remember the music, the open door and that face-stretching smile. We cannot change the way someone’s story ended, but we can help keep that ending from erasing everything that came before it.
If you or someone you know is struggling, call or text 988 for 24/7 support from the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.
