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Christmas lights shaped like an angel on a street.

There are certain moments in grief when the world feels unbearably still, and then there are moments when something breaks through that stillness with a softness that can’t be explained. For me, that “something” is 11:11.I never noticed 11:11 until after I lost both of my brothers. &nbsp;It wasn’t a number I paid attention to, and it definitely wasn’t something that showed up in my daily life. I didn’t even see it after B died. &nbsp;But after J passed, everything changed.11:11 is everywhere.On clocks. On receipts. On random screens. Even on stoves and microwaves in commercials.&nbsp;People say angel signs show up when the spiritual world is trying to get our attention. Some believe 11:11 is alignment, a portal, a moment where heaven leans a little closer.&nbsp;To me, 11:11 is comforting. &nbsp;It’s even and balanced, and I truly believe it’s their way of telling me that they are together and still watching over me. &nbsp;It’s my sign, and my Angel Number.&nbsp;Losing loved ones to suicide carries a unique kind of ache. &nbsp;An ache so indescribable that only other suicide loss survivors can understand. &nbsp; It’s the ache of unanswered questions, guilt, and of love that has nowhere to land. &nbsp;It’s unlike any other loss. &nbsp;My mind is often a battlefield, and 11:11 brings me peace, relief, and reminds me to slow down and enjoy life. &nbsp;I will always wish they were still here. I will always carry the ache of losing them the way I did. But I also carry the signs they send. &nbsp;The moments of love that feel like tiny miracles woven into my days.11:11 is my reminder that they’re reunited, they’re at peace, and they’re still loving me from where they are.And every time I see it, I pause. I breathe. &nbsp;I smile. And for a moment, the world feels a little less heavy.

11:11

I haven’t been able to write about my feelings in a long time. &nbsp;Grief has a way of reaching into my life and pressing pause without warning. One day, I’m moving through the world with my normal rhythm, and the next, everything inside me goes quiet. Not a peaceful quiet. &nbsp;Complete silence. Lights out. Dark. Lonely. Thoughts that were once steady and familiar suddenly freeze in place. &nbsp;People talk about grief as an emotion, but rarely talk about what it does to the mind.&nbsp; It interrupts the ability to think. &nbsp;It steals focus and makes the simplest tasks feel like drowning in an unstoppable rip current.When grief hits, my brain has a way of shutting down. It’s not instant, but it comes. I forget things I’ve always remembered. I feel guilty. I lose my train of thought mid-sentence. I stare at a screen or a wall, knowing I was about to do something, but the thought slips away just as quickly as they did. &nbsp;I have emotional outbursts for no reason. &nbsp;There’s a fog that comes with grief. &nbsp;It’s thick, heavy, and disorienting. Days blur. Conversations fade. I reread the same messages over and over. &nbsp; Especially the text messages. &nbsp;Oh God, the text messages. &nbsp;I walk into a room and forget why I’m there. I feel suspended between moments, unable to be fully present at any given time.Perhaps the hardest part is the guilt. &nbsp;The belief that I should be functioning better, faster, and stronger. The guilt that floods in when I laugh.&nbsp; The guilt I feel when doing something fun that they too would have loved.&nbsp; But grief doesn’t respond to pressure. It doesn’t speed up, and it doesn’t loosen its grip. &nbsp;It may take me longer, but I will baby step through this process until I can write and remember freely again. &nbsp;If you’re reading this and have similar experiences with grief, please share.&nbsp; You deserve the peace.&nbsp; And the best part is, you just may help another suicide loss griever.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Brain Freeze

I thought I had made it through the living nightmare. Grief and depression had already carved their signatures into my life. &nbsp;They each left a path of destruction and left me with wounds that never truly closed. &nbsp;No matter how much time passes.And then the unimaginable happened. &nbsp;Again. &nbsp;The second call.Justin. &nbsp;Was gone.This can’t be happening! &nbsp;The same thought I had after receiving the first call, yet I believed this one instantly. &nbsp;It had a familiarity with it. &nbsp;A dark, haunting familiarity. &nbsp; Justin and I were only one year and three days apart in age. &nbsp;We were built-on-the-same-DNA best friends. &nbsp;True partners in crime.I’ve learned there’s a sound to your soul ripping apart. It doesn’t come with screaming or sobbing, not right away. It’s quiet at first. So quiet, you can feel it. &nbsp;It’s instantly paralyzing, and time stops.And there are no answers. &nbsp; Suicide bulldozes through a family’s sense of reality and rewrites everything in its path. There’s guilt, anger, overwhelming sadness, the inability to sleep, eat, or think. &nbsp;There’s profound silence, an instant void, and a lonely ache that can’t be described.If you’ve received a call like mine, you are not alone. If you carry hurt, let it out in language, in movement, in quiet sobs or furious dancing. &nbsp;Let it out however you must.This blog is my place to name pain and, eventually, to help others name theirs. I hope someday, someone reads this and feels just 1% less alone.For now, I breathe. I write. I remember.And I refuse to let silence win.

The Second Call

I will preface this blog post to say that this is hard. &nbsp;It’s unbelievably hard as it’s still, SO UNREAL. &nbsp;There is no preparation for the phone call. &nbsp; No muscle memory to rely on when your dad’s voice tells you that your brother killed himself.It feels like drowning in place, it’s gray, and unfathomable. I felt it before I could comprehend it. In fact, I didn’t believe it at first. &nbsp;The thoughts were flooding in; I was in shock and disbelief. His words dissolved midair, and my knees lost their grip on gravity. I lost every ounce of strength in my body, and my mind was racing in multiple directions. I was trembling, in a cold sweat, and instantly sobbing. &nbsp;A complete train wreck in the middle of my mom’s kitchen. &nbsp;But in those moments, I became the person who had to speak the unthinkable. I had to deliver the news that would unravel the woman who gave us all life. I had to look into our mom’s eyes and tell her that her baby, her son, had taken his own life.I can still feel the weight of it. It’s impossible heaviness.She stepped into the room, took one look at me and said, “Which one is it?” Not what’s wrong? Not what happened? “Which one is it?”I am a firm believer it was her mother’s intuition. Piercing and precise. Painful and final.I whispered, “Brian.”And she started to go down. &nbsp;It took every ounce of strength I had to get her to the couch.Before the silence could settle, my other brother Justin walked through the front door and joined us on the couch. His body folding into ours, into the shared ache, and empty space. His hands shook. His breath was shallow.And the three of us sat there. Not speaking. Not crying. Just lost.And barely breathing.Time didn’t pass. It paused. Inside that living room, we were somewhere else. &nbsp;We were weightless, wordless, lost in disbelief and profound sadness.

The First Call

Concept of sending a love message on Valentine Day with hope.

Welcome to SaPPoS - Siblings, Parents, and Pals of Suicide.&nbsp; While I'm happy you're here, I am 100% sad, and devestated by what brought you here.&nbsp; The hope and goal of SaPPoS is to bring forward real stories of suicicde survivors.&nbsp; To show the raw, cold, lonely place of grief and to learn and share what others have gone through on their journies.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Grief is a language we never expect to learn, yet somehow, we find ourselves forced to speak it fluently. After losing two brothers to suicide, I was left with an ache too deep for words and a silence that stretched endlessly. The world kept spinning, and I found myself searching for meaning.&nbsp; Something beyond just existing through the pain. I needed a way to honor my brothers, navigate the rawness of loss, and connect with others who understood this journey.This blog was born out of that need.Suicide loss is unlike any other. We’re left with guilt, overwhelming sadness, anger, and a whole lot of what if's, why’s, and if only’s. Siblings, parents, and close friends, each experience the loss differently, yet we are all bound by the weight of missing someone we loved deeply. We are survivors, not just of tragedy, but of the journey and life that follows.Through this space, I hope to share the reality of suicide loss.&nbsp; The unspoken moments, the raw emotions, and the slow, uneven path toward healing. But more than that, I want to hear your stories. I want us to create a community where grief is not hidden, where we speak openly, and where remembrance is not just painful, but powerful.Loss reshapes us, but it does not have to define us. By sharing, supporting, and listening to one another, we can find strength in the connections we build. If you’ve ever felt alone in your grief, I hope this space reminds you that you are seen, your pain is valid, and healing, however it looks for you, is possible.&nbsp; For that, I am happy you are here.&nbsp;&nbsp;Let’s walk this path together.&nbsp; We are not alone.&nbsp;&nbsp;

Welcome to SaPPoS!

SaPPoS

I'm building a blog about sibling, parents, and pals - survivors of suicide.  I am sharing my personal story and encouraging other survivors to share theirs.  The name of the blog is SaPPoS

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