My Mother Died By Suicide When I Was 6. My Town Stayed Silent for 30 Years

I was just six years old when I first encountered the truth about how my mother, Judy, passed away. It was in a small first-grade classroom in Columbiana, Alabama, and I spoke the unspoken truth without understanding its gravity. Judy, my mother, had taken her own life just before I embarked on my first day of school. In our quaint town, a town known for its one caution light and seven churches, the fact of her suicide was known by all, yet rarely spoken.

Her photographs were hidden away in a drawer, and my father, a good man with a weary demeanor, would only utter one phrase: “I don’t know why she did what she did, baby…”.

The adults of the time, guided by the societal norms of 1982, chose to protect me by keeping the conversation around my mother at bay. For thirty long years, the town remained silent, everyone aware of the impact it had on me yet choosing not to say anything. I learned early on that my mother was something to be ashamed of, that asking about her would bring sadness into the room, and that the wisest course of action was to remain silent and unburdened.

I became quite adept at this, building a successful career by learning to read the room and deliver exactly what was needed without asking for much in return. This skill, born out of necessity, persisted throughout my life. My mother's life, however, remained a fragment – a photograph, a story half-told at a family reunion, the scent of a particular soap. It was a life that I made peace with, much like one makes peace with a limp.

A turning point came in my forties when I uttered her name aloud in a room full of strangers, and for the first time, the silence broke. This moment marked the beginning of my journey to speak about my mother's suicide, an experience that has become a significant part of my advocacy work in suicide prevention. I have shared her story with teachers, teenagers in need, legislators, and even in Washington, D.C., as the Alabama Public Policy Chair for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.

Through these platforms, I have contributed to the creation of 988, a suicide prevention hotline that has become a beacon of hope for many.

Recently, I published a memoir titled 'Her Name Was Judy', a story about the grief that enveloped my family after losing my mother. It took me thirty years to finally put those words into a sentence. Writing the memoir was not hard; the hardest part was the waiting. Yet, amidst the writing, laughter was never far away, reflecting the vibrant spirit of my family even in the face of grief.

Just five weeks after my memoir's release, I took another leap, publishing a psychological thriller. Set in a small Southern town steeped in secrets, the novel revolves around a woman who understands the power of silence and what it can do to a life, until it no longer can. The reviews called it terrifying, which I believe is a fitting description of the weight of thirty years of unspoken truths.

My message to you, dear reader, is simple. Every family has its drawer, a place where secrets are kept. That drawer might hold a mother, a brother, a high school friend, or a church acquaintance whose story is too painful to share. The silence that envelops these truths often feels like kindness, but it is, in fact, a heavy burden carried by those who were too young to understand.

Speak the name. Say it at the dinner table. Say it out loud. If you must, say it to a stranger, just as I did. You may fall apart, but with time, you will heal. I promise you this from my own experience.