And that’s where this story begins — not with her death, but with what it left behind. The silence. The questions. The promises. The guilt. The anger. The slow unraveling of who I thought I was and who I needed to become.

This isn’t just a story about loss. It’s a story about what you do after. When there’s no map. When you’re handed the weight and told, “Figure it out.”

This blog isn’t about answers.
It’s about aftermath.

It’s about what happens when someone you love takes their own life, and you’re left standing in the wreckage — trying to breathe, trying to function, trying to make sense of something that refuses to make sense.

I lost my mother to suicide.
Those words still feel impossible to write.
But they’re true.

And if you’re reading this, there’s a chance they’re true for you too — maybe not the same way, maybe not the same person, but close enough that you understand the silence that follows.

This is for the ones left behind.