Suicide Loss Survivors

A handbook for coping with suicide grief

Written by fellow suicide loss survivor Jeffrey Jackson, the booklet is an easy read that offers insight and essential information covering common experiences by those impacted by suicide loss.

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Un manual para afrontar el duelo por suicidio

Escrito por Jeffrey Jackson, un compañero que también ha experimentado la pérdida por suicidio, el folleto es una lectura fácil que ofrece perspectiva e información esencial sobre experiencias comunes de quienes han sido impactados por la pérdida por suicidio.

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Living With Grief for Suicide Loss Survivors 

In the aftermath of a death by suicide, loss survivors—family, friends, and others impacted—are often confronted by a complex tapestry of emotions that may feel insurmountable. This kind of grief, known as suicide loss or suicide bereavement, can be overwhelmingly intense, multifaceted, and unique to each individual. It is key that suicide loss survivors have access to the support needed to process and live through the loss. 

The Complicated Nature of Suicide Grief 

Understanding suicide grief is the first step toward coping with it. Grief for suicide loss survivors is often marked by an array of conflicting emotions, including shock, anger, guilt, and profound sadness. Loss survivors often grapple with “why” questions that cannot be answered, or feel a sense of guilt or responsibility for the suicide. Additionally, a portion of suicide loss survivors experience symptoms of post-traumatic stress. 

Suicide grief is complicated not only because of its emotional depth, but also due to societal stigma attached to suicide, making it harder for loss survivors to express their feelings openly or seek support. The journey through suicide loss can feel isolating, and many have found hope and healing on the other side of this loss with the support of other loss survivors. 

Strategies for Dealing with Suicide Grief 

Everyone experiences grief differently and it is important to find the approaches that are most effective for you and your experience. Here are a few strategies that may help: 

Finding Suicide Loss Support 

There are many different types of resources available to support suicide loss survivors in their journey toward healing. You can find suicide loss support in these areas and more: 

Navigating suicide loss is an arduous journey, but no one has to walk this path alone. With understanding, self-care, and support, loss survivors can find their way to healing and hope. 

About The American Association of Suicidology (AAS) 

The American Association of Suicidology is the world’s largest and nation’s oldest membership-based suicide prevention organization. Founded in 1968 by Edwin S. Shneidman, PhD, AAS promotes the research of suicide and its prevention, public awareness programs, public education and training for professionals and volunteers. The membership of AAS includes mental health and public health professionals, researchers, suicide prevention and crisis intervention centers, school districts, crisis center professionals, survivors of suicide loss, attempt survivors, and a variety of laypersons who have an interest in suicide prevention. Learn more about AAS at www.suicidology.org. 

Donate today to support AAS’ mission to promote the understanding and prevention of suicide and support those who have been affected by it. 

How To Support Survivors of Suicide Loss: A Guide to Being There in the Aftermath

Every year in the US, about 1 million people are directly impacted by the suicide of someone close to them. These individuals become survivors of suicide loss, a term that refers to those who have lost a loved one to suicide. This sudden loss often leaves survivors in a state of shock, confusion, and deep-seated grief, as they grapple with a host of complex and overwhelming emotions.

Understanding the needs and struggles of these loss survivors is essential in providing them with appropriate support, both in the short and long term. In this article, we offer guidance on how to navigate this painful situation, providing comfort and companionship to suicide loss survivors.

The Emotional Aftermath of Suicide Loss

Suicide loss can thrust survivors into a state of immense grief, often compounded by feelings of guilt, anger, and shame. They may experience a unique type of mourning known as complicated grief, characterized by debilitating sorrow and difficulty in resuming their everyday lives.

Survivors may also grapple with the stigma associated with suicide, which can make the grieving process even more challenging. This can lead to isolation, as they may feel reluctant to discuss their loss due to societal judgments and misconceptions about suicide.

Because of these muddled and complex feelings, and the societal tendency to shy away from suicide, one of the most important things you can do to help a survivor of suicide loss is to listen. Listen actively, without judgment, criticism, or prejudice. Let them share on their own timing and with their own discretion. Remember to be patient and to take a back seat; do not impose your own ideas about grief. Their experience is personal and unique, and you are there to support them, not shepherd them.

Here are some ways you can support a suicide loss survivor, now and later.

Providing Short-Term Support to Suicide Loss Survivors

In the initial aftermath of a suicide, survivors need tangible, immediate support. Here are a few ways you can help:

Long-Term Support for Survivors of Suicide Loss

Providing long-term support is equally critical, as the grieving process is often extended, lasting months or years. Here’s how you can be there for survivors in the long run:

Advocating for Suicide Loss Survivors

Supporting survivors of suicide loss is not just a personal obligation. It is also about advocating for societal and systemic changes to improve support for those grieving suicide loss. This can include promoting suicide awareness, fighting stigma associated with mental health concerns, and lobbying for better access to mental health services. Support suicide prevention, research, and advocacy by donating today!

Suicide loss is a deeply personal and devastating experience. It is essential that we, as a society, step up to provide the necessary support to those left behind. By offering a helping hand, a listening ear, and an understanding heart, we can make a difference in the lives of those affected by suicide loss.

About The American Association of Suicidology (AAS)

The American Association of Suicidology is the world’s largest and nation’s oldest membership-based suicide prevention organization. Founded in 1968 by Edwin S. Shneidman, PhD, AAS promotes the research of suicide and its prevention, public awareness programs, public education and training for professionals and volunteers. The membership of AAS includes mental health and public health professionals, researchers, suicide prevention and crisis intervention centers, school districts, crisis center professionals, survivors of suicide loss, attempt survivors, and a variety of laypersons who have an interest in suicide prevention. Learn more about AAS at www.suicidology.org.

Responsible reporting on suicide, including stories of hope and resilience, can prevent more suicides and open the door for help for those in need. Visit the Media as Partners in Suicide Prevention: Suicide Reporting Recommendations for more details. For additional information, visit SuicideReportingToolkit.com and Stanford University’s Media and Mental Health Initiative. For crisis services anywhere in the world, please visit FindAHelpline.org and in the continental United States chat, text or call 988.Donate today to support AAS’ mission to promote the understanding and prevention of suicide and support those who have been affected by it.

The Paul G. Quinnett Lived Experience Winning Competition Submissions

AAS is proud to share winning submissions of the Paul G. Quinnett Lived Experience Writing Competition to promote the messages of attempt survivors and those with lived experiences.

2024 Winners

1st Place: “The Ghost I Became” by Alec Williams

I was seventeen, sitting alone on the edge of a narrow, rusty train track stretched across an old stone bridge. Early morning mist curled down from the peak of the Appalachian mountains, damp and heavy as it clung to my skin, creeping through the worn fabric of my favorite Green Day shirt. Below, the North Fork Kentucky River winded like a dark ribbon, carrying fragments of childhood memories of my ancestors and myself as it flowed silently under my feet. Sharp air clung to me, layered with the scent of wet pine and the faint hum of waking birds – a chorus vivid and alive, yet oblivious to my presence. My thumb poked through the frayed hole in my sleeve’s cuff, tracing the worn metal rail; rough and biting against my skin, anchoring me to that moment, that place. Silence pressed in, thick and heavy, settling deeply in my chest and filling every hollow space within me. I had never imagined reaching adulthood. In an odd way, that certainty was a comfort, sparing me from the weight of an unknown future. But as time crept, I found myself hoping for a train to come, to sweep me away, carrying me beyond this life.

Growing up, I was always on the edge of something I couldn’t quite name. Watching others lead what I was taught to believe was a ‘normal’ life, I felt myself slipping further away. When I was fourteen, my mother left me at my distant father’s house and told me I’d be staying. The tracks suddenly felt wider, the gap between me and everyone else stretching even further. Everything about my father and his world felt foreign. I clung to her, dropping to my knees, begging her to take me with her. My final attempt to hold on was a note, folded into the familiar triangle pattern we used in school, which I slipped into her back pocket before she walked away. I watched from my father’s bedroom window as she drove away, her words lingering in the air like the sound of a door closing, leaving only silence behind. In that moment, I fully grasped the weight of abandonment. I felt truly alone, as though everyone around me could come and go without warning.

School offered no escape, and by high school, I had become a master of hiding every part of myself that didn’t fit neatly into societal expectations. Shortly before I dropped out, I found a small light in my first girlfriend. Like a cliché, we met on the back of the bus, both of us barely hanging on and searching for something we couldn’t seem to find. She would tell me about her dream of starting a life in California one day, somewhere far beyond the suffocating boundaries of our hometown. For the first time, I felt less alone, as though someone could see beyond the walls built around our life. We kept our relationship hidden from our families, knowing the hell it would bring if they found out. But an older man – someone who had inserted himself into our social circle by ‘dating’ a friend of ours – printed screenshots of our MySpace profiles and delivered them to her mother’s workplace, shattering the fragile safety we’d managed to build around ourselves. She had planned to stay with me that weekend, and part of me still wonders what his true intentions were, as though exposing us gave him a twisted sense of power.

Soon after, her parents stormed into my apartment, grabbed her, and dragged her out to their vehicle. I remember their shouting – violent words of disgust and disapproval that have since blurred in my memory, yet remain etched there all the same. By Monday, we learned they had moved her in with an aunt and transferred her to a new school, ripping her from her life as though she had committed a crime. We tried to stay in touch through whispered phone calls, but I couldn’t bear the thought that even speaking to me put her at risk. Watching her parents drive away with her, I felt more than just loss – I felt a sharp confirmation that the world wasn’t made for people like me, that any connection I found would be broken or taken from me. Each loss layered upon the last, building walls that felt unbreakable, as though I were meant to be hidden, unseen.

I felt the rough edges of the rock wall digging into my heels as they dangled over the side of the bridge. A small rock slipped from beneath me, cascading down to the river – five long seconds before the faint, distant plop echoed up from the water. The bridge was wide open, with no rails or barriers – just an endless drop to the river below, the kind of openness I craved in my own life but could never quite reach. Sharp, bitter notes of burnt rubber filled the air, likely drifting over from a nearby tire shop. My mother’s voice echoed faintly, a memory of her old warning to stay off the tracks – a warning she’d likely heard from her own parents growing up on the wrong side of them. But here I was, alone on the edge, carrying thoughts and demons no one else knew, praying for a train. I didn’t know the schedule. This wasn’t Amtrak territory; this was a coal town – these were freight trains. I hadn’t planned it down to the last detail; I just knew that if a train came barreling down, I wouldn’t try to outrun it… it hadn’t even crossed my mind.

Suspended between living and leaving, I felt the hollow space within me, drifting with nothing to anchor it. Beneath the numbness, anger simmered… a familiar undercurrent, tangled with every ‘why’ that had filled my life. My uncle’s ex-wife prodded at me as a child for asking ‘why’ so often. I vaguely remember her getting me a book about the ‘why’s’ of the world, but the why’s that kept me up at night weren’t why the sky was blue, or why the stars shine. She didn’t understand me, but everyone is dealt different ACEs. My ‘why’s’ were why was I so different, why I couldn’t love a girl, why nothing about me was ever ‘right’ for anyone. I wondered if people would regret the things they’d said about me, if the ones whobullied me would feel the weight of what they’d done, if the people who looked past me would finally see me when I was gone, if they’d ask why, too.

In the silence, faint thoughts flickered to life, images just out of reach. I thought of my old girlfriend and the way she’d dream about leaving this place, about building a life that felt like her own. I wondered how she was doing now. It wasn’t her I was longing for – I knew that. I was longing for the kind of future she’d made me believe could be possible. Was there a version of me out there, somewhere, who was happy? I imagined him: someone who carried my experiences, my pain, my grief, and my lessons. Someone who ‘got it,’ who felt real and unapologetically, authentically himself. For a moment, I saw him – his face, his voice, the things he might tell me. But I knew someone like that couldn’t exist – not in this world. The image faded as quickly as it appeared, slipping away like water through my fingers, but I held onto the thought, carrying this ghost with me. Moments drifted slowly, each one stretching longer than the last, and the tracks remained empty. Eventually, the cold seeped deeper into my skin, and the numbness gave way to exhaustion. I climbed up, more out of fatigue than intention, as though the numbness was loosening its grip, leaving a faint space for choice.

Walking home that night, I didn’t feel relieved. I didn’t feel hopeful, or like I’d had a breakthrough moment. There wasn’t some big realization pulling me forward – just one small thought I hadn’t had before: the lingering image of that person I’d imagined. He’d appeared as a fleeting vision on the bridge, yet something about him stayed with me. He seemed strong enough to carry the weight of being different and resilient enough to live not just through it, but in spite of it. He felt fatherly – a feeling unfamiliar to me. I didn’t really believe he could exist; in fact, I was fairly certain he couldn’t. But maybe, just for that night, he was enough. Enough to provide comfort. Enough to keep me here, just for now, holding on in the quiet, moving forward slowly, with no promises – just ‘enough’ to stay.

Looking back on that day on the bridge, I realize now it was only the beginning of a journey that would eventually lead me here. I didn’t know it then, but there were strengths within me waiting to be uncovered – character, courage, vulnerability, defiance, stubbornness, humor in the face of pain, and even a sense of justice I never lost, even when the world around me felt unkind. Those qualities carried me, one step at a time, through years of learning not just how to survive, but how to live. Today, I find grounding in the simple routines that once felt out of reach. I’m a father, watching my children grow and change, witnessing their laughter and the way they explore the world with curiosity. I find stability in our home, where my animals age beside me – a stability I never had growing up.

In these quiet, everyday moments, I find a sense of peace I didn’t know was possible. I’ve learned that ‘self-care’ is often misunderstood and overrated, far from the quick fixes people expect—it’s not a prescription, and it rarely looks the same for everyone. For me, it’s in small, everyday acts: drinking a cold glass of water, preparing a warm meal, the smell of fresh herbs and butter blooming in a hot cast iron pan, standing up for a stranger, bringing a plant back to life. Each act honors the life I’ve built and the journey it took to get here.

I went back to school as an adult and became the first in my family to earn a degree. I discovered that one of the best ways I serve myself is through serving others, and I have spent nearly ten years working in the mental health field. Today, I work at a suicide prevention and crisis hotline for young people, spending my days listening to stories that resonate with experiences from my own past. They’re finding their way, navigating a world that doesn’t always make room for them. I am here to listen, offering support as they discover their own direction. In their voices, I hear echoes of who I was, and each day, I show up for them as the person I needed back then – the person I once thought couldn’t exist. I’ve come to realize that I can be that person I needed when I was younger, for myself as much as for others.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see him – the ghost I once imagined. He feels both unfamiliar, with my face etched by new lines, and deeply familiar, as a reflection of every step that brought me here. It’s taken time to understand, but I realize now he was never a ghost at all. He was me – the future I couldn’t see from where I stood back then. I’m becoming the person I needed all along, the person I always had the strength to become. In that process, I find hope – hope that the life I’m building, however unexpected, has room for all of me and room for those who need me. Each line on my face, each sign of aging, is a testament to the boy who braved those early days, the boy who carried me here to see this moment. For all the times I nearly let go, I’m here. I don’t plan too far ahead, but I think about the life I want to keep building – the life I never thought possible. I think of my children and the lives they’ll create, of my partner and their journey, of my mother and her path to recovery, and of the community I’ve built with others who share these lived experiences. They ground me, offering the strength I once sought alone. I belong here – not as a shadow or a ghost, but as someone who has claimed his place. I stand on the other side of everything I thought would break me, anchored in the life I’ve fought to build, and ready for what comes next.

2nd Place: “Unbroken: Rising from Trauma and Finding Purpose” by Caitlin Ruzycky

At 14, my world came crashing down when I was sexually abused by someone who had been woven into my life from the beginning. He wasn’t a stranger—he was a neighbor, a trusted family friend, present at every turn as I grew up. I looked up to him, never doubting his intentions, but when he betrayed that trust, it was as if a dark curtain dropped, cutting me off from the safety I’d always felt. I was left grappling with disbelief, anger, and a sense of sadness that gnawed at my core, struggling to understand how someone so close could inflict such harm. Overnight, the familiar streets I once felt safe in became a labyrinth of fear. His abuse shattered the comfort I’d found in my world, leaving me alert to the dangers that could be hidden in plain sight. The lasting impact was a painful lesson—that even those closest to us can harbor darkness, and trust can be broken instantly, leaving wounds that never fully fade.

Around this time, I began having suicidal ideation. I started having thoughts of just not wanting to be here anymore. It started passively—wishing I could disappear or not wake up, feeling like life was too much. But those thoughts quickly turned into self-harm. The pain I was carrying felt so overwhelming that the only way I knew how to handle it was to turn it inward. Hurting and cutting myself somehow felt like a release, a way to cope when everything else felt out of control.

Shame became a heavy burden I carried, settling deep within me and twisting my self- worth. It crept into my mind, whispering cruel lies that somehow, I was to blame for the abuse inflicted on me, isolating me from others. Navigating acceptance was just as challenging—reconciling the neighbor I’d once trusted with the person who violated me felt impossible. Sharing my experience of abuse came with an immense weight—the shame, fear, and vulnerability felt like barriers to finding my voice. But breaking the silence felt right; it was a truth I couldn’t keep hidden. I confided first in my sister, who listened without hesitation, believed me instantly, and stood beside me in seeking justice. Her immediate action to inform our mother brought me unbreakable support, with my family rallying around me as my truth came to light. Not everyone responded with the same belief and understanding—some struggled to comprehend the gravity of what I’d endured, adding layers of pain. That pain pulled me into a darkness so heavy it became almost impossible to breathe. My mind spiraled deeper into depression, feeding thoughts I couldn’t escape. I’d find myself hoping, nearly praying, that something beyond my control would happen—some accident or unseen force—to take me away from it all. It felt easier to wish for an end than to keep living in a world that felt so unlivable.

Seeking justice against my abuser threw me into the daunting and intricate world of the legal system. In my small town, where social ties run deep, navigating this path came with unique challenges. Reporting the abuse and working with law enforcement required resilience; still, the system, meant to protect survivors, sometimes tested that strength. The first judge assigned to my case lived on my street and shared connections with my abuser, which raised serious concerns about impartiality. The legal delays stretched over a year and a half, leaving me trapped in an endless loop of uncertainty and amplifying the emotional toll.

Testifying in court was one of the most grueling parts of this journey. Standing on the witness stand, I was forced to recount traumatic details while facing intense scrutiny from the defense. Their relentless questioning seemed designed to discredit me, making me feel exposed and frustrated. But I held firm, knowing the truth needed to be heard. Over time, the initial judge recused himself, offering hope for a fair trial, but the delay stretched close to two years, testing my patience. Despite it all, I felt empowered in moments, fueled by the understanding that my testimony could bring justice—not just for myself but for others who might find strength in my courage.

As the judge’s voice rang out with the long-awaited verdict of “Guilty,” a wave of emotions swept over me and my family. The weight I’d carried for so long began to lift, and a glimmer of hope appeared, signaling a new chapter. But just as I felt the relief of justice served, a bitter twist emerged: the defense team immediately appealed, arguing the punishment was “too severe for a man of his age.” Months later, an appellate judge ruled in their favor, releasing my abuser early with the justification that his age warranted leniency. The decision felt like a cruel slap, exposing deep flaws in the justice system that seemed to protect privilege over truth. It was a painful reminder that status in the system can undermine survivors’ victories.

Throughout my journey, one unwavering presence illuminated my path: my mother. More than just a parent, she became my advocate, confidante, and guiding light in my darkest hours. The moment I disclosed the abuse, she sprang into action, fiercely determined to fight for justice alongside me. She meticulously compiled a folder overflowing with newspaper articles, call notes from the district attorney and police, and her reflections—a tangible testament to her dedication. This folder represented her immense weight, ensuring my voice would be heard.

The bond between a mother and child transcends time and space, and my mother’s love and encouragement propelled me forward at every step. Her words, filled with unwavering conviction, instilled in me the belief that I was not alone. Even when the trials of the legal system threatened to break me, her love anchored me, grounding me in the knowledge that I was seen, heard, and believed.

Tragedy struck just two years after the trial when my mother died in a devastating car accident. Losing my mother in a tragic car accident was a rupture that shook the very foundation of my life. I can still see the accident scene etched in my mind as I witnessed the aftermath: the flash metal, the shattered glass, the car, and the way time seemed to freeze on the side of Highway 84. I stood there, a silent witness, my heart racing with horror and disbelief. After years of wrestling with the shadows of abuse, I was not ready for another trauma. At just 18, starting my first year of college, I was filled with dreams and aspirations, but the sudden void left by her absence swallowed those dreams whole. I felt like a ship lost at sea, tossed about by waves of grief I was unprepared to navigate.

In the aftermath of her death, my life felt like a prison. I couldn’t allow myself to grieve; the pain felt too overwhelming, too raw. Dropping out of college felt like my only option, a desperate attempt to escape a reality I couldn’t bear. This decision, however, ignited a firestorm in my already fractured family. My father, grappling with his fury and sorrow, could not comprehend my choice. In his anguish, he kicked me out of our home, and suddenly, I found myself adrift, homeless, with only my car and garbage bags filled with my belongings.

With each step away from what had been my sanctuary, I felt the weight of the world pressing down on me. The streets became my reality, and the car—my only refuge. I had to find a way to survive, to reclaim a sense of identity amidst the chaos. The memories of my mother lingered like a ghost, urging me to remember her strength and unconditional love. In the darkest moments, I clung to the hope that somehow, through the pain, I could emerge stronger, carrying her spirit with me as I sought to build a new life from the remnants of my shattered past. But I quickly learned that escape wouldn’t come so easily. This became my second attempt to end my life because I couldn’t picture a world that had a place for me. What started as self-harm just a couple of years before had unraveled into something much darker, leaving behind deep wounds. The scars—the ones you can see and the ones you can’t—are still with me.

During this time, I crossed paths with another abuser, meeting him at my most vulnerable—grief-stricken, homeless, and overwhelmed by confusion. I would enter into a decade-long domestic violence relationship with him. He preyed on that fragility, quickly recognizing an easy target in my weakened state. He posed as the fun, caring older man who seemed to have all the answers, often pouring drinks for me and convincing me that he was the support I needed. Looking back, I realized I needed someone to tell me it would all be okay. Instead, he took advantage of my pain, using it to weave himself deeper into my life.

His manipulation was cruelly precise. Knowing about the strained relationship I had with my father, he used it as a wedge to isolate me further. He chipped away at that bond, systematically making himself the center of my world—a twisted, calculated move meant to break down my connections to any support network. This tactic is all too familiar in the pattern of abuse, leaving victims feeling trapped in a cycle that’s difficult to break.

In my darkest days, hope seemed a distant illusion until an unexpected opportunity reshaped my life. A family took a chance on me, offering me a nannying job, a sense of belonging, and genuine care. They embraced me as their own, filling a gap of loss and turmoil. The mother, in particular, understood my struggles and saw a potential in me that I couldn’t yet recognize. She believed in a future beyond my pain and encouraged me to pursue it.

At 24, inspired and determined, I re-enrolled in college, knowing now what I wanted: to support others enduring the same unimaginable pain I had faced. Psychology became my chosen path. Balancing full-time nannying with online classes was grueling, yet the purpose driving me kept the fire alive. Through late nights and relentless dedication, I was building resilience and equipping myself with the tools to become an advocate for survivors like myself. The family’s support was my financial and emotional lifeline; they held my hand through the journey, believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.

As my independence grew, so did my abuser’s desperation to keep me under control. I saved every penny, eventually securing a small studio apartment, a victory hard-won and precious. But this newfound freedom made my partner feel threatened, sparking more violent and controlling behavior. The abuse intensified—physical attacks, forced intimacy, and threats involving people connected to him, some in a notorious motorcycle club. Whether the danger was real or manufactured, the fear kept me from leaving, locking me in a cycle of dread and survival. But even through this, I found a glimmer of strength, a realization that I wanted and deserved a life free from fear.

Determined to escape, I began crafting a plan. My sister, who had been urging me to move to Massachusetts, became my anchor in this vision of freedom. I gathered essentials for a quick departure—my passport, social security card, birth certificate, cash, a change of clothes, and photos of my mom. This “go bag” in my car’s trunk became my symbol of hope, a reminder that with each small step, I was inching closer to a life where I could finally reclaim my peace.

One afternoon in 2017, after yet another argument—a blur of anger like so many before it—I hit a breaking point. This time was different. I told him I was leaving for good, and his rage hit a terrifying peak as he threatened to kill me and my family if I dared walk away. For the first time, he stormed out mid-fight, leaving me in the silence of that tiny apartment, utterly shattered. A sense of despair so deep overtook me, and in a haze, I tried to end it by hanging myself from my apartment loft. When I woke up, he was beside me. He didn’t say much, only that he loved me, then left. I knew then that it was truly over; he had seen the toll and life draining from me. I called my sister, packed what I could, and within 24 hours, I was gone from New York, free of him and the shadows of those years.

A year later, in 2018, I completed my bachelor’s degree in psychology, grounding myself in a purpose that had been forming: to help others find their way out of darkness. I began working at Call2Talk and Crisis Text Line, guiding and supervising crisis counselors dedicated to mental health and suicide prevention. My pain became a bridge to connect with those in need, a source of empathy and strength as I found my footing in a career that helped others navigate their struggles.

In 2020, I took another significant step by enrolling in the master’s program at Simmons University, diving deeper into social work and committing fully to a life supporting other survivors. I completed a pivotal internship with a domestic violence agency and earned my LCSW, assisting clients with restraining orders, providing courtroom advocacy, and facilitating individual therapy sessions. This work allowed me to stand beside those facing the same battles I’d fought, offering support as they reclaimed their lives.

Today, as a clinician specializing in crisis intervention, particularly in suicide prevention and domestic violence, I share a message of resilience: healing is possible. The journey is winding and certainly not linear, with difficult days woven in, but support has been my anchor— through therapy, my husband’s love, my sister’s strength, and friends who have become family. Slowly, I’m rebuilding a relationship with my father, piecing together what was once broken. I say, with conviction, to those who’ve walked a similar path that it gets better.

3rd Place: “Sunrise and Sunflowers” by Bethany Lemons

Sometimes my life feels so impossible and surreal, like all the events in my life could not have possibly occurred together in the same lifetime. When life feels this way, I imagine myself in a large conference room, with versions of me at different stages of my life meeting together. “You won’t believe what happens next,” an older me will say to an 8-year-old me, grieving my own father’s death by suicide. “One day, you will be the one contemplating suicide.” “Then one day, after that, you’ll go to your state’s capital city to receive an award for your work in suicide prevention in your community.”

Other times, I have these strange moments of what feels like extreme clarity where the way my life is unfolding doesn’t only seem “not impossible,” but feels inevitable. For a moment all of my cynicism is melted away and replaced with the whimsy of a divine predestination I have never even believed in. In these moments, nothing is absurd or surreal or impossible, because everything in my life has happened in the only way it possibly could. Usually, though, I’m just here, existing as whoever I am in this moment.

People act like suicide is contagious. I was just an 8-year-old girl grieving my father, but my friends were no longer allowed to talk to me. To my 8 year old mind, the lesson here was, “if I talk about suicide, people won’t like me.” Looking back, it’s no wonder that I thought all of my anxiety and depression accumulating over the years was mine to bear alone.

There can be something very frustrating about having your dreams realized. I wanted to escape my small town, move to a big city, and work for the government. This is exactly the life that I created. When I was 23, I had what was supposed to be my dream life. I couldn’t even enjoy it. I would get home from work at 6:00 pm and immediately go to bed without eating or showering, praying that my coworkers wouldn’t notice when I did this day after day for weeks on end. They didn’t, of course. I have something of a curse, though others have told me they envy it: I always look like I have it together. I’m one of those people for whom ceasing to smile feels unnatural. There is a dance in my step even at my worst. People find even my chaos charming and my eccentricities fascinating. I’ve always loved hearing people refer to me as a happy person.

Often, the perception others have of me bears more weight in my mind than the reality I face within. I am not proud of this. My pride nearly killed me. As much as I would like to twist the narrative here and act like I have always been an advocate for suicide awareness, I think doing so would be harmful. We have to be honest because our experiences are not unique. I’m not the only one who has experienced fear that asking for help would hurt more than death. I’m not the only person who cares about how people see me. I was suicidal, but it felt like suicide was a vague concept that only existed in my mind. Asking for help would make it real. I grew up with the stigma of my father’s suicide looming over me, and there was no way in hell that I was going back to living that way. I could get through this. Other people did it, and I could, too. I could continue to manage this alone.

At this point, I could never imagine myself living to see the next day. I didn’t want to, either, because I knew that when tomorrow came it would be the same as today, and the day after would be the same as today, as would the next, ad infinitum. The happy memories I had with my family or friends were just that– memories, and I would never be able to live in them again. The future I saw for myself was bleak. I couldn’t keep living like this, but my own internalized stigma made it so that I couldn’t ask for help, either. Daydreams of suicide became increasingly tangible, turning into more concrete plans– no matter how much I tried to stop them.

A night came that I only remember in pieces. I called my mom. I couldn’t even speak because I was crying so hard. I didn’t have to speak, my mom knew what my tears were. It was the middle of the night, and she got in her car to drive across the state to me. She begged me to get help, and the guilt was overwhelming. I kept thinking to myself, how did I ever let it come to this. I’m just. Like. My. Dad.

My loved ones were crying and begging me to stay alive, and I barely felt attached to the earth at all. I started to feel like my longing to keep my friends and family safe was doing just the opposite: I was putting them through this same pain all over again. That was the realization I needed. Life felt so foggy, so nothing else felt clear and nothing else mattered. If I didn’t go into inpatient tonight, then I would die. My mom’s broken heart seemed to be visible in her eyes. I knew I needed to stay alive, that nothing else mattered. I would figure out the rest later.

I spent a little over a week in a psychiatric hospital, and though this was just the start of my journey, it was by far the best choice that I have ever made in my life. I remember waking up early in the morning after my first night in inpatient and seeing the sunrise. The sunrise was beautiful. I thought to myself, I almost wasn’t here for this. My best friend came to visit me. She reminded me that winter would soon be over, and we could go dance in sunflower fields forever. I almost wasn’t here for this.

Things were calm for a while. I activated my short-term disability, and for the first time in my life, I permitted myself to rest. I prioritized finding contentment in myself and escaping my performative happiness. Meaning returned slowly, and not in the ways that I expected. Meaning came through mindfulness, through trying to see each and every moment as a lifetime in its own right. Meaning came through sunrises and sunflowers that I had once neglected, knowing that had I chosen differently, I wouldn’t be here to see them. Most of all, meaning came through the realization that I was not alone in my experience.

People always tell me that asking for help was strong. They say they envy my bravery. This breaks my heart. I strive for honesty, because I no longer want people to see me as just an inherently happy person. I don’t want people to see me as brave, because bravery feels intangible to a soul in crisis. I am just me. I am here. I asked for help, and I want everyone else to know that they can do the same, too. The worries they feel about asking for help aren’t insignificant because stigma in our society is real, but it’s a journey worth taking, even if just for the sunrises and the sunflowers. Asking for help isn’t just for the brave and broken. I continue to ask for help constantly.

I know everyone’s story will be different, but I hope that someone finds hope in hearing how asking for help saved my life, it didn’t ruin it. I’ve always been bothered by stories that give a definitive, enlightened ending to a story that seems like it’s still being told, so I am not going to do that. I am young and my story is not over. There are no easy fixes, and five years later I am still fighting for my mental health. My life is not a completed journey that I look at in hindsight. I still struggle. Individual, isolated days can still feel impossible, but there is no doubt that on average, I am in a better place in life than I was five years ago. Recovery isn’t linear, every day is different, but the overall arc of my life now bends toward healing. My life now has healing, meaning, sunrises, and sunflowers. And you know? That’s enough. Even if sunrises and sunflowers were the only beauty in my life, that would be enough to live for. During the nights, hold on, because come morning I get to feel warmth on my face from a giant, nearby star. I get to watch color bloom from the ground after cold winters. What more could I ever ask for?

Past Winners Coming Soon

Washington, D.C., September 26, 2024 – The American Association of Suicidology (AAS) is pleased to announce the appointment of Jody Gottlieb as Interim Executive Director. Jody succeeds Leeann Sherman, who served as President and CEO. In her new role, Jody will provide leadership and direction during this transition period, ensuring the continued fulfillment of the organization’s mission to prevent suicide and promote mental health awareness.

Supported by senior leadership team members Katherine Delgado, Chief Program and Information Officer, and Bonnie Benetti, Chief Financial and Administrative Officer, Jody will focus on strengthening the organization’s internal operations, expanding partnerships, and advancing critical initiatives.

Hudson Harris, Chair of the AAS Board of Directors, expressed confidence in Jody’s leadership capabilities. “Jody brings a wealth of experience and a deep commitment to our mission. Her strategic vision and steady leadership will be crucial as we navigate this period of change.”

Previously serving as AAS’s Chief Strategy and Communications Officer, Jody played a pivotal role in fostering collaboration across the organization and advancing AAS’s vital work in suicide prevention and mental health advocacy.

“I am honored to step into this role at such a critical time for AAS,” said Jody Gottlieb. “We are united in our mission to save lives and support communities, and I look forward to working alongside our dedicated team and partners to continue this important work.”

About the American Association of Suicidology (AAS): Founded in 1968 by Edwin S. Shneidman, PhD, the American Association of Suicidology is the world’s largest membership-based suicide prevention organization. AAS promotes the research of suicide and its prevention, public awareness programs, public education, and training for professionals and volunteers. Its membership includes mental health and public health professionals, researchers, suicide prevention and crisis intervention centers, school districts, crisis center professionals, survivors of suicide loss, attempt survivors, and laypersons interested in suicide prevention. Learn more at www.suicidology.org.

American Association of Suicidology Annual Awards

The American Association of Suicidology accepts nominations for annual awards listed below to be presented at the Robert I. Yufit Family Awards Presentation and Luncheon annually during the AAS conference.

AAS Annual Awards

Submissions are closed for 2025.

Crisis Services Award

The purpose of this award is to recognize one center for, either, 1) outstanding service in the face of extraordinary circumstances, or 2) for service to their community through an innovative and creative program. AAS wants to reward and encourage creative responses to crises and life-threatening community problems.

Edwin S. Shneidman Award

Eligible nominees for the Edwin S. Shneidman Award must be a person under forty years of age or a person who is not more than ten years past their highest degree earned. The eligible nominee is a person who has made outstanding contributions in research in the field of suicidology.

Loss Survivor Award

The Loss Survivor Award has been given since 1995 to acknowledge ways in which survivors of suicide transform the trauma of their loss into suicide prevention efforts and/or survivor support. It is intended to recognize significant accomplishments of an individual involved with suicide prevention, intervention and/or postvention advocacy/activism that embodies the mission of AAS.

Louis I. Dublin Award

The Louis I. Dublin Award is a lifetime achievement award for outstanding services/contributions to the field of suicide prevention as evidenced by leadership, devotion, and creativity.

Morton M. Silverman Student Award

Eligible nominees for the Morton M. Silverman Student Award for a paper written by a student on a topic directly related to the field of suicidology. Anyone who is pursuing a degree in their field and is currently enrolled as a full-time undergraduate, graduate, professional, or medical student or trainee is eligible. 

Roger J. Tierney Service Award

The Roger J. Tierney Service Award recognizes time and effort given to advance the association’s principles, growth, and development, and/or for applied contributions to the fields of suicidology and crisis intervention. The award is to recognize broadly defined service contributions that are to be distinguished from academic or research endeavors.

Transforming Lived Experience Award

The Transforming Lived Experience Award acknowledges a person who has survived their own suicidal experiences and transformed their pain into suicide prevention and recovery efforts. It is intended to recognize significant accomplishments in suicide prevention, intervention, advocacy, and/or recovery that embody the mission of AAS.

Nomination Instructions

1. Review the award criteria for each award prior to submitting a nomination.

2. Use the electronic awards submission form to submit your nomination.

3. You will be required to provide the nominee’s full name, address, phone number, and email address.

4. The nomination should include why this award should be presented to the nominee. Provide a brief narrative of the nominee’s accomplishments, contributions, talents, and qualifications for the award.

6. The nominee may be a self-nomination.

Award winners will be notified via email by February 28, 2025, and must confirm if they will be present to accept their award at the AAS25 conference by March 7, 2025. If an award winner is unable to attend the conference in person, they will receive instructions on submitting a brief video that will be played during the Robert I. Yufit Family Awards Presentation and Luncheon.

Nomination deadline: Submissions are closed for 2025. 

Note: Current AAS Board Members are not eligible to receive awards during their tenure.

Questions? Contact communications@suicidology.org.

Membership

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Individual Membership Category and Annual Dues

Individual Supporter*

$99 US
Members in this category include non-professionals who are interested in learning more about the field and seeking a community that includes loss survivors, attempt survivors and community supporters.

Early-Career Professional

$179 US
Members in this category include individuals who recently graduated in the suicidology program or any related programs in suicide prevention and are transitioning into the early years of their career in the workforce.

Senior Professional

$209 US
Members in this category include Individuals who are experts and/or leaders and have rich experience in a specific area such as crisis services, clinical care and research with suicidality, public health and suicide prevention care.

Student

$49 US
Open to students who are enrolled full time in an undergraduate or graduate-level suicidology program or any related program in suicide prevention. Individuals applying in this category must provide proof of full-time student status from their college/university.

Retiree

$49 US
Open to individuals who were professional in the field of suicidology and no longer practice but want to engage and get involved with the association.

Non-profit Organization


This membership is open to nonprofit 501(c)(3), (4) or (6) organizations engaged in mental and behavioral health services, crisis services, and suicide prevention care or can complement the work of AAS via their mission and vision.

Government Agency


This membership is open to federal, state and local government agencies engaged in public health or related work.

Affiliate Organization


This membership is open to consulting firms or companies that provide products and/or services that serve individuals or other organizations to achieve important personal or professional outcomes.

*Does not include subscription to Suicide and Life Threatening Behavior Peer-Reviewed Journal

Member Benefits for All Tiers

AAS Membership Offers
  • Free webinars
  • Suicide and Life-Threatening Behavior, AAS’s peer-reviewed bi-monthly journal, featuring current research, case studies, and applied prevention articles (not available for Community Level individual members)
Membership Discounts
  • AAS Annual Conference and Annual Healing Conference
  • Training workshops
  • Publications and resources
  • ​Individual and organizational certification programs
Membership Access
  • Networking opportunities with leading clinicians and researchers in the field
  • Participation on committees, task-forces, and grant-funded projects
  • Promotion and dissemination of research or suicide prevention projects or initiatives
  • Access to national media outlets and reporters
Become a Member

Organization Membership Category and Annual Dues*

Organizational memberships provide member benefits to the employees of the company/organization, crisis center, or coalition. All qualifying employees must register under the organizational name for membership discounts in training, conferences, and products. Volunteers may also be included in the organizational membership, but must submit a letter of service from the organization. Individual memberships are also available for those who do not qualify for recognition under the organizational membership.

RevenuesDues
<$100,000$220.00 US 
$100,000 – $199,999$270.00 US
$200,000 – $499,999$390.00 US
$500,000 – $749,999$530.00 US
$750,000 – $999,999$650.00 US
$1,000,000+$800.00 US
(*based on annual organization revenues in $US)
Click here to become an Organizational Member

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Create a Guest Account

AAS Guests can register for events and partake in trainings at non-member rates. Guests can create a profile, but do not have access to AAS Member benefits.

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Statement on Equity and Anti-Racism

We believe that the only way for the field of suicidology to reduce suicide and build lives worth living for BIPOC is to dismantle systems of oppression.

The purpose of the American Association of Suicidology is to prevent suicide and better understand its causes, while supporting those who have been affected by it. We seek to build lives worth living. It is critical to embrace a world where Black, Brown and Indigenous lives matter. We can only do this by dismantling systems of racism and oppression that implicitly or explicitly endorse the individual biases and racist systems that marginalize and erase the experiences and contributions of Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC). These are the same systems that actively destroy the physical and mental wellbeing of BIPOC. We pledge to recognize and address the intersectionality of the impact of suicide and its prevention when we traditionally have not as a field, even though we certainly should have.

We believe that the only way for the field of suicidology to reduce suicide and build lives worth living for BIPOC is to dismantle systems of oppression. Systemic racism not only affects how we understand and provide access to mental health care and crisis support, it frames how suicide and mental health are conceptualized, how resources including funding get allocated, and what questions are deemed worthy of research funding. Furthermore, we pledge to examine AAS’s structure and operation to understand how racist and oppressive systems are embedded in our functioning in order to shift our own organization to have anti-racist perspectives and practices.

As a predominantly and historically white organization, AAS, its board, staff, and leadership understand that we must deepen our commitment and resolve to include the voices and experiences of our BIPOC members. AAS must lead by example when it comes to inclusivity, diversity, and equity and demonstrate to current and future members that this is an organization committed to doing the work to dismantle systemic racism.

The AAS Board, Staff and Leadership pledge to:

  • Continue our current work with Dr. Pata Suyemoto and other knowledgeable advisors to create an anti-racist organization
  • Diversify the Board of Directors, leadership, staff, and our membership
  • Continue to work on Board and leadership development related to anti-racism and equity
  • Examine and reevaluate policies and practices at all levels of the organization, including governance, programming, fundraising, communications, recruitment and operations, and member engagement through a lens of anti-racism and equity
  • Highlight BIPOC voices and perspectives at the annual conference and throughout organizational activities
  • Acknowledge and engage the Indigenous people whose homelands on which we stand and meet as an organization, including returning time and space at the annual conference to Native people as invited speakers, breakout sessions and hosted events
  • Create recognition and accountability for the historical harms done to BIPOC by mental health, public health, social work, and other fields central to suicidology
  • Listen to and engage with BIPOC to respond to their needs
  • Continue to engage with members and the public with live stream events to increase access to activities and to respond to concerns of BIPOC communities in real-time
  • Amplify the voices of BIPOC engaged with suicide prevention, intervention and postvention
  • Continue to improve our accreditation standards to ensure crisis centers are addressing diversity, inclusivity, and equity
  • Develop scholarships (research, conference attendance, etc.) for BIPOC members
  • Advocate for funding for research to understand and address the factors that contribute to BIPOC suicide
  • Discuss and encourage intervention and prevention research and initiatives specific to the culture and beliefs of BIPOC populations
  • Recognize the ways that intersecting marginalized identities may impact BIPOC and to engage them across disciplines, including BIPOC suicide attempt survivors and survivors of loss in all parts of the organization

This is your AAS. The Board, leadership, and staff pledge to remain transparent in our efforts to create real, anti-racist, decolonized outcomes for the organization, our members, and suicide prevention at large.

Become a Member

 

BECOME A MEMBER & MAKE AAS YOUR HOME!

The American Association of Suicidology (AAS) is the world’s largest and nation’s oldest organization dedicated to suicide prevention. Founded in 1968 by Edwin S. Shneidman, PhD, AAS promotes the research of suicide and its prevention, public awareness programs, public education, and training for professionals and volunteers. While AAS includes members, it operates beyond a traditional membership-based model. 

By joining as an AAS Member, you will be part of a global community of suicidologists and experts in suicide prevention, gaining access to professional development, resources, events, networking opportunities, and a supportive community. 

Individual Membership

By becoming an individual member, you not only gain access to exclusive benefits but also contribute directly to AAS’s mission to empower all toward resilient lives, inspiring hope and preventing suicide through the advancement of suicidology. Discover all the advantages listed below and choose the member option that best fits your specific needs.

Member benefits:  

  • Online subscription to the Suicide and Life-Threatening Behavior journal   
  • Engage and network with our members of the AAS community 
  • Listing in the member directory  
  • Conference registration discounts  
  • Publication, Training and Certification program discounts  
  • 24/7 online access to our exclusive member portal to renew your member option, view invoices, register for events, make purchases, and more!  

5 Individual Member Options: 

Individual Supporter

$99/year
Members in this category include non-professionals who are interested in learning more about the field and seeking a community that includes loss survivors, attempt survivors, and community supporters.

Join
Early-Career Professional

$179/year 
Members in this category include individuals who recently graduated from a suicidology program or any related programs in suicide prevention and are transitioning into the early years of their careers in the workforce.

Join
Senior Professional

$209/year
Members in this category include individuals who are experts and/or leaders and have rich experience in a specific area such as crisis services, clinical care and research with suicidality, public health, and suicide prevention care.

Join
Student

$49/year
Open to students who are enrolled full-time in an undergraduate or graduate-level suicidology program or any related program in suicide prevention. Individuals applying in this category must provide proof of full-time student status from their college/university.

Join
Retiree

$49/year
Open to individuals who were professionals in the field of suicidology and no longer practice but want to engage and get involved with AAS.

Join

If your organization is already a member, then so are you! You may request from your organization to join and register as an “Employee of Member Organization”. For more information, email memberservices@suicidology.org. 


Annual Budget Annual Dues 
<$100,000 $220/year 
$100,000-$199,999 $270/year
$200,000-$499,999 $390/year 
$500,000-$749,999 $530/year
$750,000-$999,999$650/year 
$1,000,00+ $800/year 

Organizational Member Type

Non-Profit Organization 

This membership is open to nonprofit 501(c)(3), (4) or (6) organizations engaged in mental and behavioral health services, crisis services, and suicide prevention care or can complement the work of AAS via their mission and vision.

Join
Government Agency

This membership is open to federal, state, and local government agencies engaged in public health or related work.

Join
Affiliate Organization 

This membership is open to consulting firms or companies that provide products and/or services that serve individuals or other organizations to achieve important personal or professional outcomes.

Join

Your membership will be reviewed and approved 24-48 business hours after signing up. When completing the required information, do not use abbreviations.

Questions about membership? 
Email memberservices@suicidology.org.