One year ago to this day, my sister died by suicide.

The phone rang. I heard the words as if from a distance. My heart caved in, my mind froze, my body disappeared. I pulled myself together enough to call my nephew – a shattered young man – before I completely broke down.

Two days later, I was on national TV, launching my long-awaited book on strength-based parenting. Three months later, I was in Montreal accepting the presidency of the International Positive Psychology Association.

Just as many of my dreams were coming true, my world was falling apart. I was confronted head-on with the irony of reaching a professional zenith in the field of positive psychology at exactly the same time I was dealing with excruciating personal darkness and loss. How would my expertise deal with this king-hit?

My sister was proud of my book. She read various sections and loved it. We both shared a passion for helping others. I’d written this acknowledgment to her:

To my beautiful sister, Colleen, an amazing social worker who has used her strengths of courage, persistence and compassion to help thousands of people … You have made such a positive difference to the world

I’d been saving it to show her in person. She never saw it.

The night after she died I was so incapacitated by grief that my husband’s mother and sister had to help me pack for the book tour: “You need a suit for TV ... this skirt ... these shoes ... where’s your passport?” In interviews, I’d smile and discuss how to create happy families. Then I’d crawl into bed and weep. PTSD flashbacks from my childhood would stop me from sleeping.

I expected the emotional pain but was taken aback by the physical pain. For months, sharp pain radiated down my face, through my throat and across my ribcage. Painkillers did nothing. Friends were shocked when I’d double over in mid-sentence.

Colleen and I didn’t have a perfect relationship. Growing up with abuse strained our bond. But we loved and understood each other. We were bridesmaids at each other’s weddings and the first person we called when we each found out we were pregnant. We supported each other to seek therapy. No matter what, we knew we were there for each other. We were survivors. But now I am left without her and I no have words to describe the pain.

My friends worried that I wasn’t addressing my grief. Some advised cancelling my tour. To be honest, I couldn’t tell if the tour was a good thing because it kept me together, or a bad thing because it stopped me from falling apart.

Fall apart. That’s what you’re supposed to do when a loved one dies, right? Or are you supposed to stay strong? Is it okay to be happy? Is it selfish to go on?

Life doesn’t pause to help us answer these questions. Each of us must find our own answers as we go.

If I had to sum it up, I’d say: allow yourself to fall apart in some moments AND will yourself to stay strong in others.

I didn’t do this perfectly, but here are some ways that I navigated as best I could:

Use mindfulness to be present to your feelings and needs. Mindfulness helped me feel the loss and deal with the PTSD flashbacks but not be overwhelmed. I tried to be present to all of the feelings moving through me, knowing I was bigger than the grief; that I could let it wash over me but that I’d come back.



Mindfulness helped me feel the loss and deal with the PTSD flashbacks but not be overwhelmed. I tried to be present to all of the feelings moving through me, knowing I was bigger than the grief; that I could let it wash over me but that I’d come back. Understand that others will respond based on their relationship with death. Try not to take it personally. Some friends sat with me in the messiness of it all. Others dropped away for months, later confiding: “I just didn’t know what to say.” Many people are afraid of suicide and don’t have a language to talk about it. But I decided to talk about it and about her. The way my sister died does not define her. The 44 years she spent on this Earth – helping others as a social worker and raising a good son – these define her.



Try not to take it personally. Some friends sat with me in the messiness of it all. Others dropped away for months, later confiding: “I just didn’t know what to say.” Many people are afraid of suicide and don’t have a language to talk about it. But I decided to talk about it and about her. The way my sister died does not define her. The 44 years she spent on this Earth – helping others as a social worker and raising a good son – these define her. Draw on your strengths to comfort and steady you. Each of us has our own unique strengths. Grief amplifies the need for us to use them. For me, Colleen’s death was a call to action to step more fully into my nephew’s life and to use my strengths as a psychologist to help him through his profound loss. I couldn’t be more proud of my nephew and the strength he has shown over this past year – wisdom, dignity, compassion and grit beyond his years.



Each of us has our own unique strengths. Grief amplifies the need for us to use them. For me, Colleen’s death was a call to action to step more fully into my nephew’s life and to use my strengths as a psychologist to help him through his profound loss. I couldn’t be more proud of my nephew and the strength he has shown over this past year – wisdom, dignity, compassion and grit beyond his years. Seek healing, more than happiness. People advised me to try and stay happy. That wasn’t working for me, yet I didn’t want to drown in grief. I had my nephew and my kids to look after, not to mention the book tour. I decided to focus on “healing” rather than “happiness,” engaging in healing practices like journaling, walking, prayer, and meditation.



People advised me to try and stay happy. That wasn’t working for me, yet I didn’t want to drown in grief. I had my nephew and my kids to look after, not to mention the book tour. I decided to focus on “healing” rather than “happiness,” engaging in healing practices like journaling, walking, prayer, and meditation. Hold on to the small moments of light. To ensure that I didn’t drown in sadness, I made a choice to savour the good things: the immense gratitude I felt for my husband, his family and my loving friends (I had a freezer full of casseroles for 6 months); life’s little joys – sunshine on my back, the smell of good coffee, my kids’ laughter and the affection of my dog who, for months after Colleen died, followed me around the house gently nudging my leg with his nose. These small things made the grief less daunting.



To ensure that I didn’t drown in sadness, I made a choice to savour the good things: the immense gratitude I felt for my husband, his family and my loving friends (I had a freezer full of casseroles for 6 months); life’s little joys – sunshine on my back, the smell of good coffee, my kids’ laughter and the affection of my dog who, for months after Colleen died, followed me around the house gently nudging my leg with his nose. These small things made the grief less daunting. Give yourself permission to walk away. Grieving is warrior work. It takes enormous amounts of energy. Do you need time by yourself? Take it. Are there things you can take off your plate? Do so. Are there people in your life who are unsupportive, or outright harmful? Walk away. It may not be forever, but you need to protect yourself during this time.



Grieving is warrior work. It takes enormous amounts of energy. Do you need time by yourself? Take it. Are there things you can take off your plate? Do so. Are there people in your life who are unsupportive, or outright harmful? Walk away. It may not be forever, but you need to protect yourself during this time. Be authentic and courageous. “Putting on a brave face must take so much out of you,” one friend commented after a book event. But bravery was not a face I put on to hide my grief. Bravery was born because of the grief. I had to have the courage to talk about her death in order to honour her and support her son. When all I wanted to do was crawl into a ball, I willed myself to speak up about suicide and abuse in the hope that it will help others who are going through similar circumstances. You will have your own circumstances but I encourage you to be real and courageous.



I miss Coll every day. I keep expecting a text from her with a funny joke or the lyric from an eighties song. I keep going to dial her to tell her the latest gossip. I haven’t “moved on”. But I have “gone on”. I don’t ever want to move on from my sister, she is a part of me and I always want her in my life. But I know I need to go on for the sake of her son, my kids and myself. The raw grief still hits me at unexpected moments – like a sudden punch to the throat – but it’s happening less frequently. Most days the rawness has been replaced by a soft sadness. I know that this sadness will be with me for the rest of my life but, as time passes, I find myself thinking of our fun times and my body warms. With each happy memory of my darling sister, the warmth will grow. I know that the warmth won’t replace the sadness but I trust that they will find a way to sit beside each other.

I feel Colleen is somewhere cheering my work. Her work was about rescuing kids from unhappy families and mine is about helping kids thrive by creating happy families. Her legacy lives on through my book.

Embracing life doesn’t mean denying a loved one’s death, or that we miss them less. It means honouring and celebrating their life. It means taking over where they left off. But most of all, it means having our eyes open to the enormous gifts we gain in our own life as we continue to stumble and get back up again.

In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. In the UK the Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In the US, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. Other international suicide helplines can be found at www.befrienders.org.