Ten Years After Losing My Son, I’m Ready to Open Up About Suicide Prevention

September is Suicide Prevention Month, a time when organizations and communities come together to bring attention to a problem that often lurks in the shadows. For many, it’s an opportunity to raise awareness, share resources, and encourage open dialogue. But for some of us, this month carries a weight that words can’t fully express.

This September is a particularly difficult month for me. Ten years ago, on September 2nd, my son Tyler committed suicide at the age of 14.

Despite all the efforts, all the conversations and all the attempts to help, Tyler’s pain was greater than the help that was offered to him.

And even though I did everything I could to be there for him, the systems in place that should have supported him failed miserably.

The illusion of support

When Tyler began to struggle, I reached out to his school, hoping for counseling and help. But what I found was a system ill-prepared to deal with the realities of mental health crises. The school counselor’s stock phrase “my door is always open” was nothing more than a soothing phrase, as effective as a wet towel trying to catch a falling rock. The truth is that kids who are hurting deeply, kids who are seriously contemplating suicide, aren’t walking through that open door. They’re not going to walk in and say, “Hey, I’m struggling.”

Instead, they hide in plain sight, carrying a burden that many adults can’t understand. And when these kids finally decide to take action, it’s often too late. I took Tyler to the school counselor, desperate for help, but after a few visits, I was told, “He’s doing well.”

He wasn’t.

And when he left us, that counselor never contacted us. Not a call. Not a letter. Not a word. It was like Tyler’s struggles were just another statistic that didn’t deserve a second look.

Related article: Regulators to introduce three-digit suicide hotline, like 911

“We never saw the signs” — The empty excuse

Schools and organizations like to default to, “We never saw the signs.” But here’s the hard truth: The signs are there if you’re willing to look for them. They show up in behavioral changes, moments of withdrawal, silent cries for help that don’t always come in words.

However, it takes effort, care and a willingness to engage beyond a generic “open door” policy. It takes a proactive approach that does not wait for children to come forward, but meets them where they are, often in the silence of their difficulties.

I visited Tyler’s school several times, armed with statistics and reports on youth suicide rates, trying to impress upon them the urgency of the situation. Yet the response was minimal, a bureaucratic shrug that became only a half-hearted acknowledgement after Tyler left. It shouldn’t take a tragedy to spur people to action. And yet, it often does.

Denial that hurts

One of the most infuriating things I’ve encountered is parents who say, “My child would never do something like that.” It’s a comfortable lie people tell themselves to avoid facing the uncomfortable reality that children can suffer in ways that aren’t always visible. It’s easy to turn a blind eye, dismissing the signs as “just a phase” or normal teenage angst. But the truth is, no one is immune. No child is immune to this risk.

Parents need to be alert to these signs: every slight change in mood, every sign of desperation. You can’t afford to ignore the faintest signals. I wake up at 3 a.m. all the time, thinking about the last time I saw Tyler’s face, the last hug, the last text.

It was a horrible message from his mother telling me what had happened, followed by his final goodbye. We had been divorced for almost 10 years when this happened, but nothing prepares you for such news. I can still hear his voice, feel his presence and smell him. The memories are as vivid now as they were then.

The Reality of the Invisible Battle

Suicide is not something that just happens. It is often the result of a long and painful internal battle, invisible to most. Children who truly intend to commit suicide often do not declare it publicly. They do not issue warnings; they find a way.

Existing resources—hotlines, websites, even school counselors—can be vital, but only if they are used effectively. In many cases, these tools feel like they are designed to meet needs rather than save lives.

For Tyler, these resources weren’t enough. They were merely Band-Aids on wounds that needed more than just superficial attention. I live every day with the agony of losing him, with a huge hole in my chest that will never heal. I’ve learned to live with the pain, but it’s no less intense than the first day. It’s a constant companion, a reminder of what was lost and what could have been if more had been done.

What needs to change

The “open door” policy is not enough. We need a paradigm shift in our approach to mental health in schools and communities. That means mandatory mental health education integrated into the curriculum, not just an optional seminar once a year.

That means counselors trained to recognize the subtle signs of severe depression and suicidal thoughts, not just those waiting for students to walk into their office. It also means parents, educators and community leaders who aren’t afraid to ask the tough questions and push for the right answers.

We also need to teach our children that it’s okay to not be okay. That it’s okay to speak up, to ask for help, and to keep talking even when it feels like no one is listening. And most importantly, we need to be there for them, not just in words, but in actions.

Related article: Mentioning suicide in obituaries can help loved ones grieve

Living with loss

There is no cure for the pain of losing a child. It is a wound that never heals, a constant pain that you learn to live with. Tyler’s absence is felt in every moment, in every missed milestone, and in every second of silence that should have been filled with his laughter.

His birthday falls on September 15th, and every year, that month becomes a time I dread. I am paralyzed every time I see 8:30 p.m., the moment I lost him. The song “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day has taken on a new and painful meaning for me.

It took me a decade to find the strength to write about this, but I hope my story reaches someone who is struggling, who knows someone in a similar situation, and who can take the necessary steps to prevent another parent from living this nightmare.

Suicide Prevention Month isn’t just about awareness, it’s about action. It’s about asking schools, communities and ourselves to do better, to see the signs and intervene before it’s too late.

We owe it to our children, to ourselves, and to all those we have lost along the way. And if sharing Tyler’s story can help just one family avoid this unimaginable pain, then his memory will continue to make a difference.

About the author

GV Wire producer Dean Kirkland is the founder and director of Gas and Gears, an independent film production company that has produced numerous television series and feature films, including the award-winning documentary “Racing Through The Forest” (2014).