Sometimes Closure Sounds Like Silence

This week, someone I knew died by suicide.

As soon as I heard the news I reached out and checked on colleagues I knew would be impacted. We exchanged messages back and forth. I wanted them to know it was okay to be hurting. That someone was thinking about them.  But as the week went on, I found myself getting angrier.

I knew this person through an agency where we had both worked, and their death seemed to spark something in me. One night I sat down and started writing. The words came quickly, and before I could overthink them, I had written a message about the loss, about counselors struggling to find words for their own grief, and about my frustration that as a profession we do not always take care of our own.

My message ended with a simple request: Take five minutes. Make a call. Send the text. Check on someone.  And if you are struggling, let someone check on you.  In a moment of pure impulse, I sent it to leadership at my former workplace.  And what I got?  Nothing.  No response.  No acknowledgment.  Just silence.

What I realized in that quiet was, this week wasn't just about losing someone. It was also about old wounds that I thought had healed.

When I left that organization, I packed up years of my life in about five hours. The next day I sat in a recliner in my living room and experienced my first full-blown panic attack. I couldn't catch my breath. I sobbed uncontrollably. And I remember feeling overwhelming empathy for people who are suddenly cut loose from workplaces that have already moved on before the employee has even walked out the door.

What struck me then, and still strikes me now, is how little thought many organizations give to the aftermath of those decisions. We live in a society where accessible mental health care is already difficult to find, especially for people whose struggles don't occur between 8am and 5pm Monday through Friday.  Part of what I had been trying to do in my role was change that.  And maybe, for a few years, I did.  Maybe I gave some people hope when they needed it.  And I need to remember, that’s what matters.

Recently, I've been struggling with the fear that some of the trauma work I've done wasn't as effective as I thought. I've found myself wondering if being triggered by all of this meant I was somehow back at the beginning.  But I don't think that's true anymore.  What I am learning is that healing doesn't mean old pain disappears forever. It means that when life inevitably brings those wounds back to the surface, we recognize what's happening.  This week forced me to see that the grief I was carrying wasn't only about the counselor we lost. It was also grief for a chapter of my own life. Grief for relationships I thought were deeper than they were. Grief for a professional identity I had to rebuild. Grief for a version of myself that fought very hard for something I believed in.

And maybe that is why the silence was so important.  Because, maybe deep down, I think I was still asking a question.  Did any of it matter?  And the silence gave me an answer.  Not an answer about my worth. Not an answer about the work I did. But an answer about those relationships and what they actually were.  And honestly, I think that answer brought me more peace than a response ever could have.

Nothing in life is permanent. There will always be experiences that stir up old hurt and old pain. There will always be moments that remind us of chapters we thought were closed. What matters is what we do with those moments.  For me, one of the most powerful tools has always been writing.  Sometimes writing helps me understand what I'm feeling.  Sometimes writing helps me process grief.  And sometimes writing helps me discover that the closure I was searching for has already arrived.  It just didn't look the way I expected.

Below is the message I sent:

This week, we lost a counselor.

Some knew this person as a colleague. Some knew them as a friend. Others may have only crossed paths with them somewhere along the way. No matter the connection, the loss has rippled through our profession.

I have spent much of this week feeling lost, hurt, and shocked. As I’ve spoken with counselors and therapists, I’ve found that many of them are struggling to find the words to describe what they’re feeling—something we are trained to help others do every day.

And tonight, after a week of sitting with patients who are trying to make sense of their own lives, I find myself angry.

I am angry that, as a profession, we do not always take care of our own.

Maybe we believe we have the tools to figure it out ourselves. Maybe we are exhausted at the end of the day. Maybe we think reminding each other about self-care is enough.

Today, it isn’t.

So I am asking—begging—each of us to reach out. Be vulnerable. Be honest. Sit quietly with someone if there are no words. 

Check on a colleague. 

Check on a friend. 

Acknowledge the hurt that so many therapists, counselors, and helping professionals are carrying right now.

And if the first person doesn’t hear you, reach out to someone else. Keep reaching until you feel heard, understood, and cared for.

Yes, our work is how we earn a paycheck. But if we do not make changes, if we do not speak up, and if we do not support one another, there may come a time when there are not enough therapists and counselors left to do this work.

Take five minutes. Make the call. Send the text. Check on someone.

And if you are struggling, let someone check on you.

Sincerely,

One of Us