When They Chose to Leave: Sitting with Suicide Grief

Jul 30
5 min read

There is a grief that doesn’t fit our usual stories of loss. It doesn’t always bring crowds of mourners, ritual chants, or even a clear ending. Instead, it arrives like a silent knock at midnight, urgent yet muffled. You find yourself with a funeral in your hands and a heart that cannot make sense of a goodbye so violent and so final. In India, where family ties and duty intertwine, the shock of suicide reverberates through every corner of life, leaving behind guilt, shame, and questions that refuse to be answered.

The call from the hospital arrives without warning. A distant siren, a policeman’s hesitant knock, a doctor’s gentle apology all converge in a single instant. Time fractures there. You want to scream, to stop the world, to rewind. Instead, you stand in a corridor, clutching your own disbelief as if it could hold back the flood.

Later, in the hushed gathering of relatives, someone will whisper about “stress” or “accident.” But you know the truth: they chose to leave. And that choice burns in your mind, an ember of incomprehension that will glow for months, years or perhaps a lifetime.

People trying to hold each other's hand but slipping away

Suicide remains one of the greatest taboos in many Indian communities. Even though decriminalised in 2017, it’s still wrapped in shame. Relatives sidestep the word "S". Conversations trail off when you mention their name. You become custodian of a secret tragedy, expected to grieve quietly, without disturbing the family’s reputation.

That silence can feel suffocating. You want to tell the world: “They were hurting. They needed help.” Maybe you asked for help, but it was not taken seriously by your relatives and friends. Yet you are silenced by the fear of gossip, the dread of pitying glances, the weight of cultural honour. Shame seeps into your bones, whispering that talking about their death will bring dishonour upon you and your family. In the aftermath, guilt arrives quickly. “If only I’d known.” “If only I’d been kinder.” “If only I’d seen the signs.” You comb through every memory, every text message, every argument, as if one perfect intervention could have changed the ending. This loop of “what ifs” becomes your mental prison.

Alongside guilt lies a harsher voice: survivor’s guilt. Why you and not them? Why did you deserve to stay when they didn’t? These thoughts can erode your sense of self-worth, leaving you hollow, as though you were never meant to live without that person beside you.

In India, loss is usually honoured with ceremony: the lighting of the funeral pyre, the chanting of mantras, the communal gathering for shraddha. But suicide can interrupt or shorten these rites. Sometimes, rituals are perfunctory so hurried that they offer little time for true mourning.

Even more painful is the aftermath. You may return home to empty rooms and awkwardly clamped lids on condolence bowls. No one asks how you are doing, because the community isn’t sure how to handle a death they didn’t expect. This lack of ritual space deepens the wound, leaving grief to fester in secret corners of your mind. When public rites fail, we become our own ritual makers. These personal ceremonies offer moments of permission to grieve:

Morning Offerings: place a flower, and a photograph on your windowsill. Sit for five minutes, breathing in and out, acknowledging their absence.
Unsent Letters: Write everything you wish you could say. Pour out your anger, your love, your confusion. Keep these pages in a special box - no need to send them, just write.
Memory Walks: Choose a route that meant something to you both. Walk slowly, collecting a small token at each significant spot: a stone from the path, a fallen blossom, a scrap of paper. Store them in a jar as symbols of remembrance.
Annual Day of Light: Pick the date you want to honour - birthday, anniversary, or the day you lost them. Light diyas at dusk, play their favourite song, speak their name out loud. Let the small flames carry your sorrow into the night sky.

two hands keeping the lamp lit on a windy night

Grief thrives when it’s witnessed. You don’t have to walk this alone:

Peer Support Groups: Organizations like AASRA, Sneha, and the iCall helpline offer spaces - both in person and online - where suicide loss survivors can share without fear of judgment.
Therapy and Counseling: A grief counselor or therapist can guide you through trauma responses, help you untangle guilt, and teach self-compassion practices. Therapy isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a resource for survival.
Trusted Confidants: Identify two or three people friends, cousins, colleagues - who can hold your rawest moments. Give them permission to ask you how you’re really doing, and let them remind you that you’re allowed to grieve fully.

Healing from suicide grief doesn’t follow a straight line. You’ll experience:

Flashbacks and Intrusive Thoughts: Memories of that final day can loop without warning. Treat them like waves: observe, let them pass, and return to your breath.
Anger and Resentment: Directed at the person who died, at yourself, at a friend or a relative who didn't help or at a system that offers so little mental health support. Anger is a valid part of grief - allow it to surface and express it safely (journaling, art, movement).
Moments of Relief Guilt: You may find respite in small joys - laughing, sleeping, making new plans. Relief guilt can follow. Remind yourself: moments of peace are not betrayal; they are necessary pauses in a journey that will last as long as memory.

CULTIVATING GENTLE REMEMBRANCE. As time moves forward, grief can transform from raw pain into a quieter form of loving memory. You might:

Share stories of them at family gatherings, weaving their presence into the fabric of everyday life.
Volunteer for suicide prevention or mental health awareness, turning personal tragedy into communal care.
Engage in a creative practice - painting, poetry, music - that carries traces of your loss and blossoms into something new.

These acts don’t erase grief; they reshape it into a companion you can live with.

YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO MOURN. No matter what anyone tells you, you deserve a place to grieve this death. You deserve tears, questions, rituals, and stories. Your pain is not a private shame. It is an invitation to honour both the life that left and the life that remains - more fragile, more precious, more irrevocably changed.

So today, as you light that diya in the empty room, whisper their name as if calling back a memory. Let your body speak its ache. Let your heart open to support, therapy, community, and the possibility of hope.

You are not defined by what happened. You are defined by how fiercely you choose to live on. And in that living, you carry their light forward - small, steady, and profoundly alive. You are allowed to miss them.

You are allowed to mourn.

You are allowed to name it: grief.

And may this naming become a balm, a beginning, a return to yourself.

With tenderness and presence,

Anjali Mahalke

Mental Health with

Anjali Mahalke

When They Chose to Leave: Sitting with Suicide Grief

Further Reading & References for overcome Suicide Grief:

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