It was September 2015, a few months after Charles had died by suicide in June of 2015. As a suicide loss survivor—first my son, Charles, who died by suicide at age 20 in 2015, and then my first cousin Pat, who died by suicide in 2022 at age 57—I know firsthand how painful the message “suicide is preventable” can be.

When September rolled around that first year, and I began seeing all the messaging surrounding Suicide Awareness and Prevention Month, it gutted me. The first one I saw was a poster in Starbucks where I had just met with a friend of my son’s. I wanted to rip it down and burn it. I did not. But I do remember the heat in my face.

I was underwater. Drowning in grief and guilt.

I didn’t prevent my son’s death. I didn’t even know he was thinking about suicide. Charles was the last person I would have ever imagined would take his own life. So why was that poster taunting me?

Did that mean I didn’t know him after all? Didn’t it mean I had failed as a parent?

Suicide wasn’t even on my radar. Yet from what I’ve learned since his death, Charles had struggled with suicidal thoughts for years, possibly even as young as age 10.

His therapist knew. And I remember thinking: Why didn’t he tell me when he was underage? How could I not know? How could a mother miss something this important?

Thankfully, I no longer hold myself hostage with those questions. But I do get, as a Suicide Loss Survivor, that it can be painful to hear “suicide is preventable.”

Suicide can be prevented. But not always.

I like to say that we can help someone save their own life. We can learn the warning signs. We can ask directly about suicide. We can create environments where people feel safe talking about their pain. We can connect people to help and stay beside them through the darkest moments.

But we cannot guarantee an outcome. We cannot control another human being. We can hardly always control ourselves.

That’s an important distinction for suicide loss survivors to hear.

Because no one wants or asks for suicidal thoughts. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, someone dies by suicide.

Had I known, I would have done anything to help my son.

I think about all the things I worried about when Charles was growing up.

We live in a river city, and I worried that he might drown. I worried he might get into a car accident, be abducted, or become the victim of a crime. I worried about all the dangers that could come from outside of him.

Who would have thought the enemy was in his own head?

That is one of the cruelest parts of suicide loss: hindsight makes everything look obvious when it’s not. The signs can be quite subtle even if the person sending signals thinks they are a blazing neon sign.

When we know the outcome, we can look backward and find the clues we didn’t recognize at the time. We can replay conversations. We can examine text messages. We can wonder about what we missed, what we should have said, and the questions we should have asked.

But we didn’t have the information we have now. We were living the story without knowing there was a story and how it would end.

Suicide prevention matters. So does compassion for those who couldn’t prevent a death.

I spend much of my year talking about suicide prevention. I speak, train, travel around the country, and try to help people recognize when someone may be struggling.

I believe deeply in this work.

I believe asking about suicide can save a life.

I believe helping someone feel seen, heard, and less alone can make a difference.

And I believe we should keep learning how to prevent suicide and talk with those who have the thoughts and listen.

I remember what it felt like to be a brand-new suicide loss survivor in September 2015.

New loss survivors are experiencing that same pain right now.

They may be seeing the words “Suicide is preventable” everywhere.

And they may be hearing something very different:

Then why couldn’t I prevent it? Why didn’t I know? What did I miss? Was this my fault?

When someone dies, that does not mean the people who loved them failed.

Sometimes, despite everything we wish we could have done differently, we simply didn’t know because we can’t read minds. And “God” is not on our resume.

“Suicide is preventable” has often been used to communicate hope and open up the conversation.

It’s not intended to lay guilt on people who have lost someone to suicide. Adding the word “can” helps.

AnneMoss Rogers

AnneMoss Rogers is a leading wellness and suicide education expert and one of the top mental health speakers and suicide prevention speakers. Known for her powerful, motivational keynotes, AnneMoss combines her personal story of loss with proven strategies to help organizations build a wellness culture that drives results and saves lives.  She speaks at conferences, workplaces, K-12 schools, and universities, delivering impactful presentations that inspire change and promote mental health awareness.
AnneMoss does this work in memory of her son, Charles, who struggled with anxiety, depression, and addiction, and died by suicide at age 20 in 2015.