How Losing Someone to Suicide Changed What I Believe About Everything

CW: suicide loss, faith, existential grief

Before my dad died, I had a worldview. We all do. I didn't actually think of it as a worldview — I just thought of it as reality. The way things were. The assumptions that ran underneath everything like the operating system of my life.

And then he died by suicide, and the operating system crashed.

This is one of the most jarring aspects of losing a loved one to suicide. It's as if what you believed before is in jagged little pieces, shattered on the ground in front of you. And you are suddenly asked to put those pieces back together in a way that rings true to your new reality.

Photo: Unsplash/Pablo Heimplatz

The Assumptions I Didn't Know I Had

Here are some things I believed before my dad died:

People who seem okay are probably okay. My dad seemed okay. He was funny. He was present. He went to work and paid his bills and showed up to things. I didn't know that someone could be drowning in plain sight.

Love is protective. I thought if you loved someone enough, it became a force field. That being connected, being seen, being cared for — that these things kept people safe. They don't, always. (But they do help.)

I can sense when something is wrong. I consider myself perceptive. Intuitive. The kind of person who picks up on things. I didn't pick up on this.

Death comes with warning. Illness. Age. Accidents happen, maybe, but a choice? Made in private, without the chance to intervene? I didn't know death could work like that.

The world is basically safe. Not perfect, not easy, but fundamentally stable. Predictable within reason. This one collapsed hardest, and I believe many of us are feeling that for different reasons these days.

The Freefall

After my dad died, I didn't just "lose" him. I lost the world as I understood it.

I remember walking around in those first weeks feeling like I was on a movie set. Everything looked the same — the streets, the grocery stores, people going about their lives — but I knew now that it was all just scenery. Underneath the scenery was chaos. Randomness. The possibility that anyone, at any moment, could be suffering beyond what I could see. That the people I loved could leave without warning. That nothing was as solid as I thought. It was, in a word, surreal.

This is existential grief. It's not just mourning a person — it's mourning the world you thought you lived in.

The contract you thought you had with reality. The assumptions that made it possible to move through life without being terrified all the time.

I have sometimes called it a "loss of innocence." But, really, that phrase has always felt too gentle to me. It was more like a loss of ground. Like the floor I'd been standing on turned out to be a painted sheet over a canyon.

And in some ways, being that this was my father, it made sense that a part of my foundation had crumbled and disappeared.

What I Stopped Believing

In the years since my dad's death, I've had to be much more honest with myself about what I no longer believe. Not because I'm cynical — but because I can't pretend anymore.

I stopped believing that hard work and good intentions protect people from suffering. They don't. Suffering is distributed unfairly and without reason, and no amount of doing things right makes you immune.

I stopped believing that mental health care, as it currently exists, is adequate. My dad had access to resources. He had people who loved him. The system still failed him — and it fails thousands of people every day.

I stopped believing that "everything happens for a reason." It doesn't. Some things happen for no reason at all. Some things are just terrible. And there's no one to be held responsible for it, for which to blame.

I stopped believing that I can always help. That if I'm present enough, attentive enough, loving enough, I can keep the people I care about safe. I can't. That's not how any of this works. (It doesn't stop me, though.)

What is Pieced Back Together Instead

So what do you do when your worldview collapses? You can't just walk around believing in nothing. You have to stand somewhere.

For me, the rebuilding has been slow. It's still happening, thank goodness! But here's what I've found so far:

I believe in showing up anyway. Love doesn't protect people — not always, not reliably. But I still believe in love. I still believe in presence, in connection, in saying the thing and making the effort and being there. Even if it makes things awkward, I bring up the tough stuff. I say "I love you" to people. Not because it guarantees anything. Just because it matters. Because it's what we have.

I believe in honesty over comfort. I don't want to be soothed with platitudes anymore. I don't want "everything happens for a reason" or "they're in a better place." I want the truth, even when it's hard. I've found there's a strange kind of peace in letting things be as terrible and chaotic as they actually are.

I believe the world is both brutal and beautiful. I used to think I had to choose — either life is good or life is tragic. Now I think it's both, all the time, inseparably. My dad is dead and the sunset is still gorgeous. The world is full of suffering and also full of connection and kindness and moments that take your breath away. Holding both is harder than picking one. But it's more true.

I believe in the people who stay. Not the people who show up once with a casserole and then disappear. The ones who are still asking how you're doing a year later. The ones who say your person's name. The ones who don't need you to be okay. Those people are the solid ground now.

The Worldview I Have Now

I'll be honest: I miss my old worldview. There was a comfort in it. A security. I didn't know how good I had it, believing the things I believed.

But I can't go back. And I'm not sure I'd want to. The worldview I have now is harder to live in, but it's more honest. It doesn't require me to pretend. It doesn't ask me to maintain illusions.

And strangely, it's made me more present. More sincere, too. When you stop believing that safety is guaranteed, you pay attention differently. You say the thing now, because you know there might not be a later. You love harder, not because it protects anyone, but because what else is there to do with this one wild, unpredictable life?

My dad's death broke my understanding of reality. But it also gave me a new one — messier, less comfortable, more true.

I think he'd understand that. I think, in some ways, he probably already did.

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If your worldview collapsed along with your loss, you don't have to rebuild alone. Befriend Your Grief is a 3-month program for survivors of suicide loss. Learn more here. Put those pieces back together in great company. Save your spot by August 20th. We begin on August 25th. And if you're not ready yet but you want to support others to participate in the program, consider donating to The Joy Fund, in memoriam of Bridget Merkle, a friend, artist, and cheerleader for this work.