Losing a loved one to suicide is often confusing and surreal.  A great deal of energy is expended churning through a whirlpool of questions – especially the whys.

I’ve heard it countless times from other survivors of suicide loss – why did my loved one do this when they were the first in line to stand up for the downtrodden and the bullied?  Why did my loved one die by suicide when they assured others struggling with depression and suicidal ideation that they needed to live, that their lives had value, that things would get better?  Why did my loved one, who loved deeply and gave freely, take their own life?   Why did my loved one, who sought to comfort and protect others in pain, die by their own hand?

I’ve grappled with these questions myself and I will likely continue to be confounded by these whys.  The action of taking one’s own life does not logically comport with the selfless, compassionate behavior of helping others in crisis.  I constantly have to remind myself that suicide is not rational and a rational mind cannot understand the irrational.

On one of my harder days, I was given a beautiful gift from someone who told me, unequivocally, that my beautiful baby sister saved her life.  A woman who was a few years younger than my sister reached out to me privately over Facebook and shared a story I will cherish for the rest of my life.  It was her story but it was also my sister’s story.  It represents the light my sister’s life brought to the world and I feel strongly that her light should continue to burn even beyond her last breath.

It was November. Like the middle of November. And I was in the bathroom crying because a stupid boy broke my heart and my dad was abusive and my mom was sad all of the time and I didn’t think I could do it. This whole life thing, I guess. I wasn’t eating or anything either. I had anorexia and it was fully taking over because of being in such a poor emotional state, I guess. And this girl, she was older than me and super gorgeous and a cheerleader. She always had the most perfect hair, flawless makeup, and a beautiful smile. She came into the bathroom, where I was crying in a stall over a dumb boy, and basically pushed the stall door open. I was super afraid and shocked. She always intimidated me, even though I didn’t know her. But she was wonderful. And she told me that boys suck, especially young boys, and that they’re never worth the tears. She told me that I was beautiful (awkward, acne ridden, gap toothed, fifteen year old me) and smart and that I was going to go places and that one day that boy wouldn’t matter a single bit. She told me that I didn’t have to let a guy define my worth. And she gave me a granola bar and told me to eat more. And she said that everything was going to be okay. And I totally believed her. And everyday after that, whenever she saw me in the hallways, she’d smile at me or pat my shoulder in passing. And she never told anyone about the anorexia. And I am so thankful. I don’t even know how she knew it, but she did. She saved me a little that day, and everyday after.  Your sister…saved my life. In every sense. I don’t know if she knew how much of an impact she had. But oh my, that woman changed everything for me.

I read these words over and over again, bleary eyed and sobbing.  I was filled with a confluence of diametrically opposed emotions that are all too common with suicide grief.  I was filled with sorrow and joy, love and anger, confusion and clarity.  But most importantly, I was a proud big sister.  The onslaught of whys were quieted by my profound sense of pride. I wished deeply that I could have celebrated, with my sister, her loving act of bringing such light into someone else’s darkness.   Through a single, bold action she reminded this woman that life is beautiful and worth living.

I will never find a satisfactory answer to the whys or reconcile the bitter irony that my sister saved a life but took her own.  Ultimately, however, the why matters less than the truth she lived in that moment.

Kindness matters.  Love matters.  Life matters.  Sharing your light is a gift.  And that matters too.

**[To the woman who shared her story with me, thank you.  It means more than you will ever know.  My sister was imperfect.  We are all imperfect.  But she mattered to me and it gives me strength and joy to know she made a difference in someone else’s life.  It raises my spirits to know her life meant something and that even a single action can radiate outward through you.  My sister was right about everything she told you. Broken hearts suck.  You are beautiful.  You are smart.  You are going places.  That boy doesn’t matter any more.  You don’t have to let a guy or anyone define your worth.  Everything ended up okay and if it gets hard again, everything will eventually be okay again.  You made a difference to me.  You are making a difference to others.  Thank you.