Hello, My Name is Alison: Grief, Identity & Surviving Suicide Loss

By Alison

“Grief is like a weight you carry around with you. It changes you, reshapes you, and you learn to live with it.”

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Hello, My Name is Alison: Grief, Identity, and Telling His Story

Introductions are supposed to be easy: your name, your job, where you are from. Mine begun with words that shattered my life.

Hello, my name is Alison. My husband died by suicide.

For a long time, that felt like my introduction to the world. Not just to new people, but to this new version of my life I never asked for. It felt like walking into an AA meeting—except this meeting was my grief. My trauma. My loss. It was the uncomfortable silence after I said I was a widow. It was the look people gave me when they knew how he died or the questions when inquiring minds wanted to know more.

Becoming a widow and a single mother overnight shattered my sense of identity. I didn’t feel like a wife anymore. I didn’t feel like a Store Manager. I didn’t feel like me. When I’d meet someone new, I’d say my name. If the kids were with me, I’d introduce them. But if I could tell—or even sense—that someone knew how David died, or they asked, “How did it happen?” … I never said the word “suicide” outright.

Instead, I’d launch into the story. Because the word suicide carries so much stigma, and people often judge what they don’t understand. I didn’t want them to judge him. I didn’t want them to judge me or my children. David was a wonderful man. He was kind, funny, intelligent, a family man. I felt like if I could tell his story, maybe they’d see the truth. Maybe they’d see him.

The Famous Question: What happened?

David was a perfectionist. He worked incredibly hard to give us everything—our beautiful home, vacations, comfort, and the life we dreamed of. He was a consultant for a tech company, helping businesses, schools, and even the government install and network their systems. His job title was Senior Application Engineer. It was demanding work, even more so during and after COVID.

His company went through two rounds of layoffs. Then came supply chain issues, delays in manufacturing, and too few workers. When David lost a major contract, he was convinced he’d be fired. The pressure became unbearable. He internalized everything. He didn’t want to let me down. He didn’t want to let our children down. He was terrified we’d lose everything. But most of all, I think his pride was what broke him.

I gave him an out. I told him he can take a medical leave. Take a vacation. And that he could ultimately quit – he didn’t like the demand of his job that much anyway. Plus, I made enough for us to get by. I wanted him to find joy again—to breathe, to rest. A week before his passing, he opened up and told me how deep it all ran. He decided to take a vacation to contemplate what to do while taking a break and a rest from work. I got him in to see a doctor. But it was already too late. He had made up his mind. It took me a full year to even begin to understand that.

Pleading the Case No One Asked For

Sometimes I’d blurt it all out before anyone even asked, “How did he die?” I think I wanted to clear the air—to make sure people knew the truth. That I didn’t cause this. That our marriage was strong. That our home was filled with love.

But the truth is, I wasn’t really pleading with them. I was pleading with myself. I was questioning me—my life, my worth, and the reality I had been thrown into

Life comes in phases: The college we dreamed of attending. The marriage we hoped for. The divorce that defined a relationship. The career that shaped our identity. The retirement we pictured in our minds. Sometimes those phases lift us up. Sometimes they break us. Sometimes they define us so completely that we forget who we are without them.

I let David’s death define me for a long time. I thought I’d never get past the moment I found his body. Or the reality of raising our children alone. I thought this is it—this is my life: the widow whose husband died by suicide. Just stick a big sign on my forehead. This was my new introduction. This was my identity.