Health and Me

Ishita Roy

For most people, grief arrives slowly. For survivors of <span>suicide</span> loss, it crashes in without warning and never quite leaves the room. Around the world, millions of people carry this quiet, complicated grief. This one is laced not only with heartbreak, but often with unanswered questions, guilt, shock, and the haunting feeling that maybe something, anything, could have been different.

<span>International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day</span> is more than a remembrance; it is a reminder that those left behind are still learning how to live with an absence that reshaped everything. For Harry Corin, *Amitava Kumar, writer Arianna Rebolini, and *Aastha Ganguli that reshaping began the moment they learned their loved one had chosen to leave the world.

Their stories are different, their cultures and circumstances varied, but their grief echoes the same truth: suicide does not end a life alone. It alters the lives of everyone who loved them.

<h2>“I spent a decade hiding the truth”</h2>

Harry Corin, who was raised in St Ives, a small town in England was only 12 when his father died by suicide. At an age when children are learning how the world works, Harry was suddenly thrown into a reality too heavy for words.

For more than a decade, through school, university, and his first jobs—he kept the truth locked inside.

It was fear that speaking about suicide would make people uncomfortable, fear that it would expose the overwhelming pain he had never processed. But the first time he spoke about it openly, something shifted.

He realized how powerful honest conversation could be, and how desperately men needed safer spaces to have them.

Now a <span>mental health</span> speaker and founder of a global workplace wellbeing company, Harry’s life mission is rooted in preventing others from reaching the point his father did. He believes <span>suicide prevention</span> begins long before a crisis, through environments where vulnerability is accepted, emotions are not dismissed, and support is offered without hesitation.

But his journey has also been shaped by the way he experiences the world. Diagnosed with ADHD in his late 20s, he finally had a lens that explained years of inner restlessness. This understanding didn’t erase the pain—but it helped him reclaim a narrative he had once buried.

Also Read: <a href="https://www.healthandme.com/health-wellness/international-day-for-survivors-of-suicide-loss-history-and-its-relevance-today-article-153188803" data-type="tilCustomLink">International Day for Survivors of Suicide Loss: History And Its Relevance Today</a>

In Kolkata, many families live close, emotionally, financially, historically. This was true for *Amitava Kumar, whose beloved uncle, affectionately called 'Choto Kaka', was the youngest of seven brothers.

Amitava remembers him as charming, generous, and deeply loved by nieces and nephews. He had a thriving business and carried much of the joint family’s financial responsibilities after Amitava’s father moved to Delhi. He handled his grandparents’ medical expenses, supported siblings, and was the emotional anchor of the household.

But behind that warmth was a man whose emotional vulnerability was often exploited by friends. His generosity made him an easy target for those who took advantage of his kindness and financial success.

At home, tensions began to grow. Arguments escalated. Pressure mounted. He began drifting away from the family that adored him.

Then came the debts: quiet, creeping, and devastating.

“One day,” Amitava says, “we were dumbstruck to hear that our beloved Choto Kaka had taken his life.”

It was February 1995 when Amitava was 28, and it was the last he saw him—just a few months before his own wedding, which was to be held in May in the same year. His uncle had blessed the photo of his bride and promised to meet her soon.

The family marked his memory with a stone inscription at Brahma Mandir in Pushkar, a way of leaving his soul at the feet of the divine. Yet the void he left remains unfillable.

<h2>“Grief becomes complicated when distance exists”</h2>

For New York-based writer Arianna Rebolini, grief came from a different angle, not in the heart of a close-knit family, but through a friendship that had drifted apart.

At 28, she learned that her once-inseparable college friend, Alice, had died by suicide. It was a loss wrapped in guilt. They had bonded deeply in their youth, often over their shared struggles with mental health. But adulthood had separated them—new cities, new routines, and the quiet fading that happens between even the closest friends.

“There’s a shame in realizing you weren’t there,” she says. “I wasn’t in a position to know that she needed help.”

Arianna carried the dual weight of grief and self-blame. She dreamt about Alice for years. She combed through old messages. She found a Facebook text from Alice, sent two months before her death, that she had never responded to.

To heal, Arianna confronted the details of Alice’s final months, refusing to shy away from them, a path many survivors fear but some desperately need. As she immersed herself in Alice’s poetry and art, she found connection, closure, and eventually clarity.

Through years of writing and research, her understanding of suicide transformed. She even wrote a gutsy, riveting memoir that explores suicides, named <em>Better: A Memory About Wanting to Die</em>.

<h2>“When Love Is Lost Too Soon”</h2>For 22-year-old *Aastha Ganguli from Delhi, suicide loss was not just a family tragedy or a distant shock, it was the loss of someone who felt like home. She was 19 when she lost Gauri, her girlfriend and best friend.

One of Aastha’s fondest memories is how Gauri taught her to see the world differently. “She always had another perspective,” she recalls. “I was taught to look at things one way, but she showed me there were multiple ways to understand the same moment.” Gauri listened deeply, helped people find clarity, and reminded those around her that judgment should never be the first instinct, a lesson Aastha carries with her even now.

But healing, she says, has been “up and down, not linear at all.” Three years on, the grief still lives in her bones. Music helps. Talking about Gauri helps. Sharing her story keeps her close. What hurts most is when people assume there should be a deadline for mourning. “People told me, ‘It’s been two or three years, you should move on.’ But I never will. She’ll always be a part of me.”

Aastha has also seen how people oversimplify suicide. “They think there’s one reason someone does it. But it’s never one thing, it’s a culmination of small things.” What pains her deeply is when people say someone “wasn’t strong enough.” To her, it reduces a full, complex human being to their final moment. “She was so much more than what happened in the end. It’s not about strength or weakness.”

Like many survivors, she carried guilt, wondering whether she could have done more or helped in a different way. With time, she learned that loving someone doesn’t mean you can always save them. That understanding has shaped how she supports others now. She no longer pushes people to open up; she waits, gives space, and allows them to come to her. “Helping someone isn’t one-size-fits-all. Some people need words. Some need silence. Some just need presence.”

She hopes communities learn to stop minimizing struggles and stop forcing their own solutions onto someone else’s pain. “If a person says they’re struggling, don’t judge them through your lens. Find what <em>they</em> need, not what you needed.”

To anyone grieving a suicide loss, her message is gentle but firm: “Don’t be afraid to say how they died. When we hide it, we create shame, and that silence can hurt others who might be feeling the same way.” Above all, she urges kindness, especially toward those who might be reaching out in unclear or complicated ways. “Even if someone says it for attention, it’s better to talk to them than dismiss them.”

Gauri had always been an advocate for mental and emotional wellbeing, and she taught Aastha how to find peace within herself. Today, Aastha tries to carry that forward. “The only thing that has changed,” she says softly, “is that now I want to spread the same message she gave me, so others can find their safe space too.” 

<h2>The Invisible Weight Survivors Carry</h2>

The stories of Harry, Amitava, Arianna, Aastha reveal what most people don’t see:

Survivors of suicide loss often live with:

<ul><li>guilt, even when it’s undeserved</li><li>unanswered questions that never resolve</li><li>shame imposed by societal silence</li><li>the ache of unfinished conversations</li><li>anger, confusion, love, and longing, all at once</li></ul>

Their grief is not linear. It’s a spiral. Some days are survivable. Others reopen wounds that never fully healed.

<em><strong>Note:</strong> <em>Names have been changed to protect identities.</em></em>

<strong>Note:</strong> Information about Harry Corin has been taken from his publicly available website, harrycorin.in, and is used with consent.

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For most people, grief arrives slowly. For survivors of suicide loss, it crashes in without warning and never quite leaves the room. Around the world, millions of people carry this quiet, complicated grief. This one is laced not only with heartbreak, but often with unanswered questions, guilt, shock, and the haunting feeling that maybe something, anything, could have been different.International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day is more than a remembrance; it is a reminder that those left behind are still learning how to live with an absence that reshaped everything. For Harry Corin, *Amitava Kumar, writer Arianna Rebolini, and *Aastha Ganguli that reshaping began the moment they learned their loved one had chosen to leave the world.Their stories are different, their cultures and circumstances varied, but their grief echoes the same truth: suicide does not end a life alone. It alters the lives of everyone who loved them.“I spent a decade hiding the truth”Harry Corin, who was raised in St Ives, a small town in England was only 12 when his father died by suicide. At an age when children are learning how the world works, Harry was suddenly thrown into a reality too heavy for words.For more than a decade, through school, university, and his first jobs—he kept the truth locked inside.It was fear that speaking about suicide would make people uncomfortable, fear that it would expose the overwhelming pain he had never processed. But the first time he spoke about it openly, something shifted.He realized how powerful honest conversation could be, and how desperately men needed safer spaces to have them.Now a mental health speaker and founder of a global workplace wellbeing company, Harry’s life mission is rooted in preventing others from reaching the point his father did. He believes suicide prevention begins long before a crisis, through environments where vulnerability is accepted, emotions are not dismissed, and support is offered without hesitation.But his journey has also been shaped by the way he experiences the world. Diagnosed with ADHD in his late 20s, he finally had a lens that explained years of inner restlessness. This understanding didn’t erase the pain—but it helped him reclaim a narrative he had once buried.Also Read: International Day for Survivors of Suicide Loss: History And Its Relevance TodayLosing the heart of his familyIn Kolkata, many families live close, emotionally, financially, historically. This was true for *Amitava Kumar, whose beloved uncle, affectionately called 'Choto Kaka', was the youngest of seven brothers.Amitava remembers him as charming, generous, and deeply loved by nieces and nephews. He had a thriving business and carried much of the joint family’s financial responsibilities after Amitava’s father moved to Delhi. He handled his grandparents’ medical expenses, supported siblings, and was the emotional anchor of the household.But behind that warmth was a man whose emotional vulnerability was often exploited by friends. His generosity made him an easy target for those who took advantage of his kindness and financial success.At home, tensions began to grow. Arguments escalated. Pressure mounted. He began drifting away from the family that adored him.Then came the debts: quiet, creeping, and devastating.“One day,” Amitava says, “we were dumbstruck to hear that our beloved Choto Kaka had taken his life.”It was February 1995 when Amitava was 28, and it was the last he saw him—just a few months before his own wedding, which was to be held in May in the same year. His uncle had blessed the photo of his bride and promised to meet her soon.The family marked his memory with a stone inscription at Brahma Mandir in Pushkar, a way of leaving his soul at the feet of the divine. Yet the void he left remains unfillable.“Grief becomes complicated when distance exists”For New York-based writer Arianna Rebolini, grief came from a different angle, not in the heart of a close-knit family, but through a friendship that had drifted apart.At 28, she learned that her once-inseparable college friend, Alice, had died by suicide. It was a loss wrapped in guilt. They had bonded deeply in their youth, often over their shared struggles with mental health. But adulthood had separated them—new cities, new routines, and the quiet fading that happens between even the closest friends.“There’s a shame in realizing you weren’t there,” she says. “I wasn’t in a position to know that she needed help.”Arianna carried the dual weight of grief and self-blame. She dreamt about Alice for years. She combed through old messages. She found a Facebook text from Alice, sent two months before her death, that she had never responded to.“It still hurts,” she admits.To heal, Arianna confronted the details of Alice’s final months, refusing to shy away from them, a path many survivors fear but some desperately need. As she immersed herself in Alice’s poetry and art, she found connection, closure, and eventually clarity.Through years of writing and research, her understanding of suicide transformed. She even wrote a gutsy, riveting memoir that explores suicides, named Better: A Memory About Wanting to Die.“When Love Is Lost Too Soon”For 22-year-old *Aastha Ganguli from Delhi, suicide loss was not just a family tragedy or a distant shock, it was the loss of someone who felt like home. She was 19 when she lost Gauri, her girlfriend and best friend.One of Aastha’s fondest memories is how Gauri taught her to see the world differently. “She always had another perspective,” she recalls. “I was taught to look at things one way, but she showed me there were multiple ways to understand the same moment.” Gauri listened deeply, helped people find clarity, and reminded those around her that judgment should never be the first instinct, a lesson Aastha carries with her even now.But healing, she says, has been “up and down, not linear at all.” Three years on, the grief still lives in her bones. Music helps. Talking about Gauri helps. Sharing her story keeps her close. What hurts most is when people assume there should be a deadline for mourning. “People told me, ‘It’s been two or three years, you should move on.’ But I never will. She’ll always be a part of me.”Aastha has also seen how people oversimplify suicide. “They think there’s one reason someone does it. But it’s never one thing, it’s a culmination of small things.” What pains her deeply is when people say someone “wasn’t strong enough.” To her, it reduces a full, complex human being to their final moment. “She was so much more than what happened in the end. It’s not about strength or weakness.”Like many survivors, she carried guilt, wondering whether she could have done more or helped in a different way. With time, she learned that loving someone doesn’t mean you can always save them. That understanding has shaped how she supports others now. She no longer pushes people to open up; she waits, gives space, and allows them to come to her. “Helping someone isn’t one-size-fits-all. Some people need words. Some need silence. Some just need presence.”She hopes communities learn to stop minimizing struggles and stop forcing their own solutions onto someone else’s pain. “If a person says they’re struggling, don’t judge them through your lens. Find what they need, not what you needed.”To anyone grieving a suicide loss, her message is gentle but firm: “Don’t be afraid to say how they died. When we hide it, we create shame, and that silence can hurt others who might be feeling the same way.” Above all, she urges kindness, especially toward those who might be reaching out in unclear or complicated ways. “Even if someone says it for attention, it’s better to talk to them than dismiss them.”Gauri had always been an advocate for mental and emotional wellbeing, and she taught Aastha how to find peace within herself. Today, Aastha tries to carry that forward. “The only thing that has changed,” she says softly, “is that now I want to spread the same message she gave me, so others can find their safe space too.” The Invisible Weight Survivors CarryThe stories of Harry, Amitava, Arianna, Aastha reveal what most people don’t see:Survivors of suicide loss often live with:guilt, even when it’s undeservedunanswered questions that never resolveshame imposed by societal silencethe ache of unfinished conversationsanger, confusion, love, and longing, all at onceTheir grief is not linear. It’s a spiral. Some days are survivable. Others reopen wounds that never fully healed.Note: Names have been changed to protect identities.Note: Information about Harry Corin has been taken from his publicly available website, harrycorin.in, and is used with consent.

international survivors of suicide loss day the invisible weight of suicide loss: stories of guilt, love, and healing

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