

An aunt and her niece share their stories, their paths to healing, and their mission to help fellow survivors
By Katie Hurley and Dorrit Corwin
The Day It Happened
Katie, age 51
I was 23 years old and one day from completing the first year of my master’s in social work in Philadelphia. As I drove along the Schuylkill Expressway to meet a friend for dinner, the incessant beeping of my pager (did I mention it was 1998?) made me smile. It was my grandmother’s number on the tiny screen. Did Nana know how to page people? And how did she even know my number?
When I arrived at my friend’s house, I called her back.
“Katie?” said my mother’s voice. “You have to be strong right now. Dad died at work today.”
It was the only word that came to mind: “What?”
I remember every detail, the way we do in such moments: how the giant cordless phone rested between my ear and shoulder, the sound of Wheel of Fortune in the background. I sat on the edge of the sofa. A fly circled above me, making a low humming sound.
“What happened?” Two more words.
“We really don’t know. Maybe his heart. They’ll do an autopsy.”
We don’t know? People usually know, don’t they? Would knowing help?
I just talked to him. Five words took up residence in my brain as I blazed up I-95 en route to my childhood home. I remember none of that drive apart from those words. I pulled into the driveway to find more questions, and no answers.
For months, we dodged questions about the cause of death and hinted to each other that maybe it was his heart after all. Perhaps there was some truth in that, though not the scientific kind. Not the biological kind.
His heart wasn’t in it anymore. That was the closest we could come to saying suicide at a time when it was just not a word people said.
Dorrit, age 24
I was 21 and a junior in college, navigating the ambiguity of falling in love for the first time. Jameson and I had known each other since freshman year and had been seeing each other on and off for almost that long. He worked hard on improving his mental health, but dark thoughts made committing to a relationship difficult for him, he told me.
It was 2022, the summer before what would have been our senior year—if neither of us had taken time off during the pandemic. He seemed happy about returning to school, had genuine hopes for pursuing his many passions, and I felt his love for me more than ever. Still, he was never, it seemed, able to fully emerge from his depressive fog.
Mostly, but not completely.
Two days after we’d taken the train to Boston to see a concert, I was awoken by loud voices outside the house on College Hill where I lived. I opened the back door. Eight police officers stood there. They did not ask if I wanted to sit down. One of them asked if I was in a relationship with Jameson.
“Yes,” I said.
The cop told me that Jameson died early that morning.
Only seconds went by before they began questioning me:
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Was he here with you at your house last night?”
“Was he acting weird?”
I could form neither sentences nor even words. All I could do was wail.
Katie
Courtesy of Hurley
Katie (Godbout) Hurley and her father, Jim GodboutCourtesy of Hurley
My father was the quintessential “good guy.” Friends and neighbors flocked to him when he entered a room, hungry for stories featuring characters that couldn’t possibly be real but hanging on his every word just in case. He knew to hold the punchline until his audience was rapt with anticipation, dropping a line to cue the raucous laughter at just the right moment. His college stories were the best, though I never knew if they were entirely true, like the time he allegedly rigged a toilet to deliver some kind of spiked purple punch when the handle was pressed and placed it on the front lawn for a summer party. He was generous with his time and friendship, and he was beloved in our community because of it.
I was the quiet child, the one who needed cajoling to go to a party or step even an inch outside my comfort zone. I couldn’t fathom what kind of a personality overhaul might be required to be more like him, so I studied him, practicing with my stuffed animals behind the safety of my locked bedroom door.
When my mom sat me and my three siblings down on her bedroom floor to tell us the results of the autopsy, I was stunned. For a moment, anyway. By age 23 I had battled my own demons enough to know that what we choose to show the world isn’t always how we feel inside of our own brains and hearts, so I moved quickly from shock to what I can only call despair. There I was, studying clinical social work, years after surviving my own flirtation with suicidal thoughts. How could I have missed the red flags?
Dorrit
When I first became close with Jameson in 2019, my mom urged me to be vigilant about checking in on him. I was hesitant to be overbearing. I had a huge crush on him and was intimidated by his striking good looks and the way he seemed to carry himself so confidently. I liked him even more when his confident facade came down, but I wasn’t expecting it to reveal such deep insecurity. The more suicide survivors I meet, the more I hear the same type of story: It’s often the people who appear the most perfect, happy, and confident who are fighting the most vicious inner demons.
The flip side of being raised by a suicide survivor is that my mother’s trauma afforded me the confidence to assume that I was equipped to help Jameson. I didn’t flinch when he told me about previous suicide attempts or childhood trauma. I knew him well for three years, yet there was so much more going on in his head than I could understand—waves crashing together and thrashing him below the surface, and sometimes all I could do was hold his hand and hope he made it to shore.
It’s often the people who appear the most perfect, happy, and confident who are fighting the most vicious inner demons.
For years he told me he was in no mental space to start dating someone, but that summer he seemed like the best version of himself. He was teaching himself music production, learning Japanese, and taking computer science and AI courses he found online.
I’ll never forget sitting with him on the rug of my childhood bedroom as he explained that while he’d spent lots of time contemplating ending his life, he’d come to the conclusion that he was done thinking about suicide ever again. His tone was serious, yet calm, as he gazed at me warmly through his oversize wire-rimmed glasses.
I believed him. More important, I could tell he believed himself.
How did everything fall apart so quickly?
Picking Up the Pieces
Katie
In the weeks and months that followed my father’s death, we began to piece things together. Financial distress, kept hidden even from my mother, was likely a contributing factor. But there were the memories of a childhood that wasn’t honest (he only learned at age 14 that he was adopted by his father when a cousin used this information to publicly shame him), rejection by his family as an adult, and a biological father who resurfaced many hidden childhood traumas when he attempted to connect with him later in life.
We shed many tears together during those weeks, perched at the end of my parents’ bed, sifting through clues. We cried for the secrets he kept and the sadness we should have seen. We shared none of this with friends or even extended family. It wasn’t something anyone knew how to talk about. They didn’t ask and we didn’t tell.
We cried for the secrets he kept and the sadness we should have seen.
In the suicide prevention field, we are careful to say that suicide is multifactorial. To attempt to point to a single cause is to miss the larger picture, so we train people to look for what are considered the “red flags” of a mental health crisis. While that’s a very helpful framework for increasing awareness about what a mental health crisis looks like, what I’ve learned in more than 25 years of clinical practice is something that is not often advertised: Those red flags sometimes become a faded pink, and tattered. That makes them a lot harder to spot.
Dorrit
As soon as the cops left my house that morning, I called my parents. My mom got on the first flight to Providence, Rhode Island, and slept in my bed with me for 10 days. She carried the grief heavier than most, talking nonstop about how she could have done more to help Jameson. But I now know that you can only support, not save, someone.
Katie
As we cleaned out my childhood home to prepare to sell it, my mom and I found those tattered and faded flags: a note on a torn scrap of paper from a yellow legal pad (he was not a lawyer, but he loved those pads), detailing what my mom should do about one of the leased cars in the driveway; a stack of birthday cards from all of us dating 10 years back with some version of “I’m sorry this was a hard year, next year will be better”; and a cassette tape from a visit he made to a psychic medium exactly two years before his death.
He had cleaned out his closet shortly before he died, declaring many styles out of date, but when we opened the closet, we discovered that he didn’t leave much behind. We think he tried to help us.
Finally, the words he said over the previous couple of years took on new and revelatory meaning as we replayed them over and over in our minds.
If I die and you remarry, you’ll need to sign a prenup.
I’m probably worth more dead than alive.
When I’m gone, you’ll want to move to the beach.
We pieced the clues together and processed the depth of the loss side by side, but it would be months before we really began to call it what it was: loss by suicide.
Support for Survivors
Dorrit
Courtesy of Corwin
Dorrit Corwin and her boyfriend, Jameson
When it comes to processing and talking about suicide, some resources have improved over the past 25 years, and some stigmas have eroded, but others have not.
The best resource I used was a virtual support group through Coping After Suicide. This community is something Katie never could have found in 1998, most obviously because Zoom was not a thing, but also because there was not as much dialogue around suicide as there is now. I was in a group called “twentysomethings”; while each member of the group had different relationships to the people they lost (parents, siblings, partners, friends), we were bonded by all being in our 20s. We met once a week for 90 minutes over a 10-week period.
These 90-minute chunks became both a highlight and a challenge of my week. I felt seen by this group of people I would never meet in person.
Another wonderful resource I turn to again and again is Anderson Cooper’s podcast, “All There Is,” where he openly discusses the grief of losing his father (when he was 10), his mother (who lived to 95), and his brother, who died by suicide when Cooper was 21.
I felt seen by this group of people I would never meet in person.
He interviews guests from Stephen Colbert and Andrew Garfield to Whoopi Goldberg and Doris Kearns Goodwin. This podcast would not have existed 25 years ago, and while it is not entirely about suicide, survivors of all types of grief can benefit from listening and learning from Cooper’s brave vulnerability.
#James Donaldson notes:
Welcome to the “next chapter” of my life… being a voice and an advocate for #mentalhealthawarenessandsuicideprevention, especially pertaining to our younger generation of students and student-athletes.
Getting men to speak up and reach out for help and assistance is one of my passions. Us men need to not suffer in silence or drown our sorrows in alcohol, hang out at bars and strip joints, or get involved with drug use.
Having gone through a recent bout of #depression and #suicidalthoughts myself, I realize now, that I can make a huge difference in the lives of so many by sharing my story, and by sharing various resources I come across as I work in this space. #http://bit.ly/JamesMentalHealthArticle
Find out more about the work I do on my 501c3 non-profit foundation
website www.yourgiftoflife.org Order your copy of James Donaldson's latest book,
#CelebratingYourGiftofLife: From The Verge of Suicide to a Life of Purpose and Joy
Click Here For More Information About James Donaldson
Click here to follow James Donaldson's Blog
The Right Words
Katie
Language matters. A lot. When people are sick with cancer or heart disease, we say it. When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, it was hard to wrap my head around my new reality, but it wasn’t hard to say the words. Mental health is different. There are “Fuck Cancer” T-shirts but no “Fuck Suicide” T-shirts. There should be.
We have worked hard to decrease stigma around cancer, diabetes, and many other medical diseases, but when I say I have depression, it’s always a showstopper. When people ask how my father died, the discomfort is palpable when I reply with four simple words: “He died by suicide.” I choose to believe that discomfort comes from a place of compassionate grief. It is unfathomable to consider a father of four dying by suicide at age 52, the age my husband just reached, and that makes it hard to respond in any kind of meaningful way. In the absence of knowing what to say, people tend to shuffle their feet, look down, and wait for the moment to pass.
We need to do better, in both responses and the words we use. Think about how often you hear phrases like “He’s crazy,” “I want to kill myself,” or “That’s social suicide” in casual conversation. Even the word combination of “commit suicide” is steeped in stigma. People commit crimes, but suicide is no crime. People use these phrases to make a joke or exaggerate a point, but for survivors of suicide loss, those words, and many others, hurt us inside.
There are simple swaps we can learn to speak in a more compassionate way:
- Instead of “committed/completed/successful suicide” say “died by suicide”
- Instead of “he’s suicidal” say “he has thoughts of suicide”
- Instead of “failed/incomplete/unsuccessful attempt” say “suicide attempt”
- Instead of suicide jokes, in words or gestures, just don’t do that. Given that we lose one person to suicide every 11 minutes, assume that someone in your presence has some experience with loss by suicide.
Words can hurt, but words can also heal. When someone opens up about—or even mentions—a loss by suicide, the simplest thing you can do is respond with, “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to tell me more about ?” or “How can I support you?”
A Clear Purpose: Prevention
Katie
Almost three years ago I was given the opportunity to join The Jed Foundation (JED), a leading nonprofit that works to protect emotional health and reduce suicide for teens and young adults. JED was founded in 2000 by Donna and Phil Satow, whose son, Jed, died by suicide while in college. My father died in April of 1998; Jed died that following December.
Awareness now is higher than it’s ever been, and while that’s not saying much, there’s at least a foundation to build on. In 2025, people working in the suicide prevention field know a lot more about what to look for and how to help someone in crisis and, because of that, we have a better chance of helping someone through a crisis. Warning signs can include:
- Talking about suicide, with or without a specific plan
- Verbalizing or writing about feeling alone, disconnected, or empty
- Feeling like a burden; mentioning that others will be better off when they’re gone
- Noticeable changes in sleep and eating habits
- Noticeable changes in personal hygiene
- Social withdrawal, not engaging in activities they usually enjoy
- Reckless behavior
- Increased agitation, irritability, anger, and/or anxiety
- Mood swings
- Feeling numb or disinterested
- Persistent sadness or depression
- Hopelessness
People often ask me what it’s like to work in suicide prevention. They wonder if it’s sad, overwhelming, or all-encompassing. The truth is that it can be one or all of those things at times, but the emotion I feel most is hope.
Gen Z is talking more openly about mental health, and that’s a very good thing. There’s still a stigma around help-seeking, particularly for young males, and we have work to do to build trust with young people, to show them that caring adults are willing to decenter themselves to help them. But we need to work faster and we need to work together.
Gen Z is talking more openly about mental health, and that’s a very good thing.
JED’s signature “You Can Help” workshops are adapted to meet the needs of many audiences, and Mental Health First Aid, ASIST (Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training), and QPR (Question, Persuade, Refer) are all examples of trainings that can help people learn to identify the warning signs, support a person in need, and refer for professional help.
Beyond collective learning, a small but mighty action we can all take to improve our understanding of and relationship with mental health is to learn how to talk about it. When parents are worried about their kids but can’t find the words to discuss their fears, I often task them with spending time in the mirror practicing the words they need to say:
- How is your mental health?
- Do you want me to help you find a therapist?
- Are you having thoughts of suicide?
A fear I frequently hear is that talking about depression and suicide will plant the ideas in kids’ heads, thereby causing depression and, potentially, suicide. That isn’t the case. The more we practice using these words and phrases, the more trust we build with the young people who need us to listen with empathy and compassion. We can only destigmatize language if we use it, and that’s a task we need to take on as a whole.
Courtesy Hurley and Corwin
Katie Hurley and her niece, Dorrit Corwin
“If I Had One Wish”
Katie
I would love to say that Dorrit faces less stigma when talking about Jameson’s death than I did when talking about my dad, but I know enough to know that open conversation about depression and suicide only exists in some small settings. It’s a club, this group of us survivors of loss by suicide. With fellow survivors we can share without burden or worry and talk openly about the wounds that never quite heal in the way we hope. We can listen to one another and create the brave spaces we’ve needed all along.
But if I had one wish, it would be that we wouldn’t need a secret club of silent understanding, that all people could find a way to talk openly about mental health and suicide and listen without judgment when others share their story. When that day comes, we’ll find that we have more in common than we think and that we have more support than we could ever imagine. Only when we can talk honestly about mental health, like we talk about any other disease, and provide the same kind of support that we would provide a family enduring any other kind of illness (pass the casserole, please) will we have eradicated the stigma and learned to truly comfort one another through any kind of storm. https://standingabovethecrowd.com/?p=16641







