On June 5, 2015, we got the news they’d found our son dead. The police used straightforward and plain language because otherwise, we wouldn’t have understood. It’s too surreal, unbelievable, harsh, and excruciating.
The image in this post was one of the last photos of Charles taken by his grandparents on his twentieth birthday. They had asked where he wanted to go for his birthday dinner and he chose….drum roll…Taco Bell. Of all the places, he chose a fast food restaurant. This photo was taken hours before he’d go into a withdrawal that we didn’t know was coming. He wasn’t with us, but his grandparents!
As I have moved through grief, which is an evolution through many stages of growth and longing, this year I found myself more fixated on the longing. Nothing about this has been straightforward, although I did think I was past that one.
The tenth year has been harder than the eighth or ninth year
This is partly because it feels like there is more distance between his living existence and mine, like he is getting farther away and fading into the background. Of course, time moves forward, not having the decency to pause, slow down or stop because of my tragedy. And while I’ve not forgotten Charles, it does feel like others have. It would be ridiculous for someone to say, “So how is Charles doing these days?”
This grief now is also different than the beginning grief when it was so intense and relentless. Back then, I didn’t want it in my life, and I was afraid of it. Today, I no longer push it away or deem it an unwelcome guest, but simply accept it, sit with the hurt, and allow it to lift a few seconds later as it always does. It is, after all, the bond I have with the one I love and lost.
This year, instead of having all of his buddies over for a get-together, Charles’s best friend and his wife, who named their girl Aubrey after Charles (that’s his middle name), will turn three years old, and we’ll go to her birthday party.
That change made me think of a story I’ve told in a couple of keynote presentations.
Stormy Heart
After a storm in June 2016, my cousin and I spotted a grove of trees near Byrd Park in Richmond, Virginia. The tree that captured our attention was in a small grove, singed by lightning and devastated.
The surrounding trees looked healthy and barely damaged, save for a few downed limbs, while this one stood like a blackened matchstick. It had pegs for branches, no foliage, and its trunk was charred. But at the top, there was something extraordinary—a heart-shaped formation. I couldn’t imagine how lightning had carved a sculpture like that.
I took a picture and added it to my #griefheart project—a daily image that captured my grief after losing my son. That project helped me process all the emotions that come with loss: pain, numbness, anger, love, even joy.
When I first saw that tree, I was sure it was dead
Two years later, my husband and I were walking to a festival in Byrd Park and decided to take a detour to find that grove of trees. At first, I couldn’t spot it. Had it died? Been cut down?
But then, among a grove of leafy trees, I saw it—my tree. Its singed trunk was healed over but still partially visible. At the top I spotted the heart that had captured mine.
And although a bit ragged and rangy in terms of symmetry, that tree was otherwise flourishing. It had fought back and survived devastation.
That’s what I want you to know.
Just like that tree, you can come back after adversity.
It won’t be easy. It won’t be fast. Some form of a scar will always be there to bookmark the tragedy.
But healing is possible. And new life can surround it.
This little human, named after my son Charles Aubrey Rogers, is that new life. She is proof that he is not forgotten. That love, even in loss, continues to grow and evolve.
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.
I like the story of a tree too. “ButHealing is possible. And new life can surround it.” So touching, but very helpful. I appreciate your teaching.
Thank you Spider.
Love and God’s blessings. To all
Thank you Carla Jean.
Thank you so much, Anne, for sharing what you do. Your story has helped me (and the other grieving parents who truly “get it”). Your message today really got to me. I am having an extra hard time right now with my genuine complicated grief of losing my oldest son three years ago. I have been sinking for the past few weeks. Long story short, as I read this, my eyes welled up with tears today, AGAIN. But this time it was tears of relief almost. It’s hard to explain. That heart tree! Seeing that beautiful tree brought me some peace. Hearts have always been my thing. They are so extraordinarily special and significant for me now since my precious boy, now among absolute perfection above, brings me hearts EVERY SINGLE DAY. He hasn’t missed a day yet since the dreadful day I lost him. The hearts are usually in the form of leaves and rocks. It’s incredible! I KNOW it’s him showing me in the only tangible way that he can…that he’s still right here with me. I know our spirits have never been apart. Not even for one second since he departed this earth, but it is so comforting to get his little gifts each day. I not only wanted to thank you for sharing with all of us what you do and your incredible work, but also to send you my deepest condolences for the loss of your own precious son, Charles. I am so sorry for all of us who have lost our child(ren). From one grieving and heartbroken Momma to another, just sending you lots of love and wanted to express my gratitude.
Thank you so much for commenting and telling me more about your story. I appreciate your openness because we have tough patches of grief to work through. And the hearts! What lovely gifts from your departed loved one. You can and do have a relationship with your beloved dead. There is nothing wrong with that. And it does evolve over time. Much love.
Your picture of Charles took my breath away. I tried to attach a picture of my son, Matthew to this post, but it isn’t working. I have been reading much of your writing for the past year or so. We are coming up to the 2nd anniversary of our son’s death. He looks so much like Charles, the eyebrows, the emerging mustache, the full head of hair, the smile, the twinkle in the eye. Beautiful, forever young, painfully missed. June 14th is the day that everything changed for me. The shock of the news left a hole inside of myself. I can still feel it, now 2 years later. His death was the result of an unobserved motorcycle accident. So also very sudden and unexpected, the police coming to the house in the morning with the news because he wasn’t discovered until then. You are very brave to keep writing and doing the work. You ask so many of the same questions I ask myself and the universe. Are they with us now, Charles and Matthew? are they smiling? I am glad that you are still connected with Charles’ friends. I love seeing Matthew’s friends, even though they are now having birthdays and changing from 19 year olds to soon to be 22. For some reason, they make me feel closer to Matthew. We have celebrated his 20th and 21st with them. Not sure how long that can go on. His birthday is 2 days before Christmas. Thank you.
I love that you still get to get her with the friends! And two years is still so raw. I guess there isn’t a way to attach a photo. But if you get my newsletter you can reply to that and attach it. It goes to my email. I am so sorry RT for the profound losses that both of us have experienced. ♥️
Your son is beautiful! Thank you for sharing him with us. It has been 3.5 years since my son died from suicide; his death happened after he was sextorted from someone in Nigeria. It doesn’t get easier; but the pain does change. I appreciate it when those who have gone before me share thier stories. It gives me hope that I can make it. I am so sorry for your loss, Anne. Thank you for supporting us as you also grieve for your son.
Oh Jaime that sextortion has been an awful scam on kids. I’m so sorry. Thank you for leaving a message. It means so much. And thank you for telling your story.
Anne Moss, when I first saw that it has been 10 years, it took my breath away for you. I so appreciate your sharing the hard parts with us, as well as the resiliency you have found. I am thinking about you…
And for ten years you have been there. I appreciate that Amy. I know your journey and experience are different but you get it. Thank you for your support always. :)
I love your story about the tree. It makes so much sense and really helps. I love the fact that Charles best friend named their daughter after him. What a honor!! Hang in there during these difficult days and know you are helping save many lives!
Thank you Jill. The day of actually will be OK. It’s often the days leading up to it that are harder. Thanks for commenting.
What a wonderful story about the tree, it is so true that we keep moving forward, damaged and forever changed but, also a better and stronger person in many ways. The first days were a blur and I remember that one of the first books that I read that truly helped me feel that someone else had experienced what I had and survived was your book. There were so many similarities between Tara and Charles and how they felt, it was surreal, it helped me even more to understand Tara’s pain. As we move towards the 5 year point I too feel longing and sadness as so much has happened and there are so many new memories that she hasn’t been here for, in some ways it gets harder as I feel that she is stuck back in 2021. I do find joy in the happy memories and photos and am forever grateful for the 22 years that we had even though it wasn’t enough. Your writings, my support groups and volunteer week keep me going as I say her name and share her story as she requested. Hugs to you my friend.,
Thank you so much catherine. You wrote, “I feel that she is stuck back in 2021.” I feel like that too, only Charles is stuck in 2015. But then I remind myself of the good memories and remember that he would have had a hard time with the addiction probably.
Dear AnneMoss,
I am sending you love! 10 years is long. Charles is with you every day, as you know. The intention you have to help yourself heal has inspired me to do the same. And I forward your words to bereaved mother friends I have who also learn and feel your love for Charles live on. Thank you. I know your son is smiling with my son, Laszlo and so many others’ children. And he is proud of you for your healing journey.
XXOO Juliana
Thank you for your kind words and the feedback. I had no idea. But that does help to know that I have brought a glimmer of hope to those going through something similar. I am grateful that I can find joy these days. At one point I thought I’d never know that again.
Earlier this year, a facilitator of a Coffee Morning monthly gathering for survivors to meet and share, mentioned that the 20th anniversary of losing her son was coming up. She shared how this 20 year event was difficult and yet she was surprised by her feelings, given such a lapse of time. When we lose a person that we had such a deep connection to, I suppose (and this is merely my view) that we never truly heal; we just learn to live with the scars that may sometimes cause us havoc.
I really, really loved the story about the heart-shaped tree. What a nice gift that Nature bestowed upon you as you came across it that day, and the circumstances of its wound seem to be a very fitting metaphor (if that is the right word) for grief- and yet it has survived.
Thank you for sharing again about Charles. This sharing will keep him close to you. It is only when we stop sharing that our people become distant. This is another reason for the benefit of attending a support group. For in that space, we can share with others, whereas often the people who we know and who knew the one now gone, they do tend to fade away from talking about the person and the memories become just memories. But in the group, our memories became reanimated, and we often walk away feeling that the person did matter.
And of course, they did matter to us and to the wider world in the context of their impact on the world in the time that they lived.
Thanks for the example of the woman who had lost her son 20 years ago. That does make me feel more….validated? I think that’s the right word. I don’t think we heal completely. I do think we learn to live with it. And I do feel I keep him alive at my group. And here, too. But with some others maybe not so much and I just can’t let that get to me. Thanks for the comment, Heath.
That heart shape at the top of the tree echoes the 2 heart-shaped green forms the florist made for my son Alex’s funeral in January. I will keep them forever because he loved nature and they are a touching reminder of that and his love. We are only 4 months out from his suicide that seemed impulsive because his wife of 7+ years was planning to leave him, and he got a lot of job rejections for many months. When he got a job, his immense anxiety (and bipolar depression) seemed to overwhelm him, and he had no real help because he didn’t like to say he had a mental disability. You are lucky your son had many friends (mine had only 1 good one), and it is so nice one of them has paid tribute to your son with his daughter’s name. i can’t even imagine how we will make it to 10 years (we are 70 anyway) without Alex. We are in such pain and grief every day neither one of us can even function. I keep hearing time will help some, and I pray for that day.
Those early months were like living underwater. You are working at it. And that makes a difference.
Time helps but making intentional choices to move forward helps that process. For me that was a support group, writing, connecting with others who’d endured this, and exercising. There are a few more.
None of that took the pain away but it helped me to process it all. And that hurt and numbness you feel means you are healing. Like knee surger that hurts after, it’s healing. I had mantras I told myself during those intense episodes–> “you hurt so much because you love him so much,” “I know it hurts. It won’t last forever. Breathe. You are healing.” And lots more. It just helped me endure those tough moments.
At the point where you are now, I could hardly get out of bed and I had to break that down into micro steps. The first one was, “just put your feet on the floor.” I even had post it notes on the wall to list steps to take in the morning because I couldn’t remember them. It would get interrupted by waves of intense grief that I had to stop and honor. And then I’d pick up on the list from there.
You got through those first few months. You are alive, you are eating, you are sleeping at least some. That’s a huge accomplishment. Much love. I know we’ve talked before about Alex.
Thank you AnneMoss – that’s reassuring. I do go out and see friends a few times a week as well as attending the bi-monthly support groups for parents who have lost children to Suicide. Baby steps is so right! I tell many strangers (eventually ) about Alex’s Suicide and 2 out of 3 seem to have a friend or family member who died that way. I also have a project of cleaning out our house (Alex killed himself here 😭💔) to sell it soon and move to an active adult community – something we were planning for the last 2 years anyway. Thank you for all you share with all of us – believe me it helps.
I think you are doing what you can to help yourself move forward. It’s painful no matter what but the steps you are taking do lessen the suffering, provide connection and a good amount of distraction. I appreciate your sharing what you have been doing. People read the comments more than the posts. :)
Thank you, Anne. I reached out to you about a year after my son, Jason, took his life in 2019. You gave me strength and hope, and sent me your book. Thank you again. Ten years after your loss of your sweet son seems like a heartbeat ago. I know. I get it. So many of us ‘get it,’ sadly. Thank you for what you do. Charles is with you always, as Jason is with me.
I remember you Susan. Thank you for your kind words. Just writing this helped. The comments even more.