On December 7, 2004, the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, Carson, my younger brother, took his life, just two weeks before Christmas and his 35th birthday. Around the same time, the world was reeling from the Asian tsunami disaster, and the impact of Carson’s death swept through our family with a similar force—engulfing us in helplessness and shock. Waves of grief crashed over us, leaving us struggling for every breath, numb to the world, and unable to make sense of anything. I remember feeling lost and disoriented, driving to pick up a guest for Carson’s memorial and realizing, suddenly, that I had no idea where I was. Moments like these brought surges of panic; it felt as though everything around me had changed.
After Carson’s memorial, the holidays, and the leave I had to take from work in my grief, I resurfaced. But everything was different. Carson’s absence shifted the landscape of my life in ways I could never have imagined. What once seemed crucial now felt trivial. The ripple effects of his death, like those of a tsunami, reached far and wide, and even today, the impact still touches everyone who knew him. Social media was really in its infancy in 2004, so it was astonishing to me at the time how quickly the news spread.
The aftershocks of pain continue to resurface—on anniversaries, on holidays— or sometimes unexpectedly,such as when looking through old photos. For example, I found a picture of us together, one of me holding him as a baby under the Christmas tree–Carson was born on Christmas Eve, and I always called him my favorite gift; finding the photo devastated me There’s another photo of us dancing at my wedding, singing “I Will Always Love You,” our song. When I found that picture, I was overcome with tears. Because these are the memories of the Carson I know, the brother who is so much a part of me, when I look at the photos and then realize he's not here, the shock of it is disorienting.
The recovery process, like rebuilding after a natural disaster, has been long and complex, and I’ve been fortunate to have a network of support that many survivors of suicide loss lack. Initially, my workplace, faith community, and friends rallied around me, offering understanding and compassion. I realize now how rare this support can be. Today, I am part of a community of Suicide Loss Survivors and other “Sisters on a Mission” and their camaraderie keeps me afloat.
I have also come to understand the unique grief of losing someone to suicide. Unlike the deaths of my grandparents or pets, who lived long and full lives, Carson’s passing was sudden and traumatic. The grief was compounded by the thought of him dying alone and in despair. Even though I was spared the horrific scene, my mind played out imagined versions of his final moments, haunted by a single, unanswerable question: “Why?”
As we approach the 20th anniversary of Carson’s passing, I find myself still standing on the shores of that tsunami. But now, I stand together with countless other loss survivors, each of us navigating our own currents of grief, searching for resilience and hope. In the years since his death, I have dedicated myself to offering others support through grief and trauma, helping them find stable ground amid their own storms.
Carson remains with me always, in my heart and in quiet conversations. I often find myself saying, “My brother, my angel, my friend. I love you and I miss you. Always.” His memory lives on, guiding me as I reach out to others, bringing them the compassion and connection we all need to heal.
To hear my full presentation on this topic: “The Tsunami After Suicide: Finding Our Way Through Grief and Trauma” https://www.mentalhealthacademy.com.au/catalogue/courses/the-tsunami-after-suicide-finding-our-way-through-grief-and-trauma