"I don't think he wanted to die. He couldn't figure out how to live.”
On Jan 20, Benn, my son, died by suicide. There are so many questions we will never have the answer to. We cannot make sense out of how the person in our family who was always encouraging us and cheering us on, who was always so proud of us, could become so overwhelmed in those last moments. Family and friends would have done anything to help him, as he had always been willing to do anything to help us.
Underneath that smile, though, there were demons. Demons of fear and shame. I have heard their voices before. The ones that tell you the world would be better off without you. The ones that point out how you keep making the same mistakes over and over. The ones that tell you your past cannot be overcome and your future is hopeless. If you listen to them enough, it is hard to see the truth. And no matter how loud your friends and family are screaming the truth at you: "we love you", "you make our world a better place", "we will help you through this”, “you are not alone", "we forgive you", you won't hear it.
I don't think Benn wanted to die, he had so much eagerness and yearning for the things of life. I just think he couldn't figure out how to live with the demons in his head. He could not, in that moment see that the light overcomes the darkness, always.
Of course, I do not want my son's death to be in vain. I want all of us to live more fully in those truths. However, I cannot see which of you need to hear this the most, I cannot know who needs light in your darkness, a lifeline tossed out. I cannot make you see there is hope. As a mother, I would have given my life for my son’s life. But I didn’t get the opportunity. If I cannot save my own son, I cannot save anyone.
What I can do is talk about suicide. Talk about the trail of pain it leaves behind. Talk about how so many people would have been there if they had known. And be there. Be a light in the darkness to everyone, regardless of how together they seem. Be in living action present by healing myself and loving others.
Shakespeare said, "Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break."
My heart will be unraveling my sorrow in words. I will probably make another substack for processing and sharing the grief journey. I just don't have the energy for that yet. But as this new grief is now woven into the fabric of my being, I am sure it will be a part of the lens I am seeing the world in. Thank you for understanding and sharing in the journey.
Tricia, my dear sweet cousin, your words are both devastating and beautiful. Your words hold the weight of unimaginable loss, yet they also shine with the deep love Benn brought into this world. He was a bright light—one that burned so brightly for others, and it breaks my heart that he couldn't see how much everyone needed his warmth.
It's hard to make sense of how someone so full of life, adventure, and kindness could carry such unbearable pain. But I know that pain doesn’t erase who he was. It doesn’t define him. He was more than his struggles—he was love, laughter, and an irreplaceable part of the family.
I wish I had the right words to take even a fraction of your pain away. What I can offer you is my love and my prayers. Benn’s life mattered, and he will never be forgotten. I will always be here for you, holding space for your grief, your memories, and your love for him.🫶🏼
Thank you for sharing your heart so openly. You are not alone in this. I love you sooo much.💜🕊
Tricia, I can't even imagine how hard it must have been to write this. Then again, you're so good with words, it's natural they would help you now to somehow begin the process of experiencing this. I wish you so much peace and I thank you for sharing your grief with all of us, with the world. I hope that will help you. I hope the help you need comes to you 100-fold. I hope your relationship with the natural world will bring comfort in the hardest moments. 💜