Naming the Unnamed: Grieving After Homicide, Suicide, or Death with Stigma

Some griefs carry more than the weight of the person we’ve lost — they carry the weight of judgment, headlines, or whispered assumptions. These are the losses that people struggle to say out loud.

Homicide Loss
Homicide isn’t just a cause of death. It’s violence that rips through a family, leaving them to navigate police reports, courtrooms, and the cold, sterile language of the justice system. I’ve lost two people I loved to homicide — my youngest brother, Alexander, who was murdered while incarcerated, and my best friend, Jess. These weren’t just “tragic” losses; they were abrupt endings that came with shock, rage, and a legal process that cared more about facts than the people left behind.

Suicide Loss
Suicide loss carries its own kind of devastation — a collision of grief, unanswered questions, and the crushing weight of “what if.” My oldest brother, Glenn, died by suicide. My husband lost his older brother, Travis the same way. My good friend, Jay also died by suicide. We know the hollow silence that follows, the way people hesitate to say the word “suicide,” as if avoiding it will soften the blow. It doesn’t.

Loss with Stigma
Some losses are met not with compassion, but with judgment — as though the circumstances erase the worth of the person who died. My childhood friend, Jenny, died of an overdose while she was in jail. I’ve seen how quickly people reduce a life to its final moments, forgetting the years of friendship, laughter, and love that came before. When grief is wrapped in stigma, the mourner is left not just to carry the loss, but to defend the humanity of the person they loved.

Why Silence Hurts

Silence doesn’t protect us. It isolates us.

When a loss is violent, self-inflicted, or stained by stigma, people tend to pull away — sometimes out of discomfort, sometimes out of self-preservation. They don’t ask. They don’t say the name. They change the subject. And that absence of acknowledgment becomes its own wound.

I’ve watched it happen in my own family. The violent death of my brother didn’t just take him from us; it cracked open fault lines that never fully closed. The differences in what we each believed should happen after his death and the way every conversation seemed too heavy — it all built a wall. Over time, some of us stopped talking altogether. Not because the love wasn’t there, but because the weight of the grief and the differences in how we carried it became too much.

I miss those connections. I miss the ease of family before the fracture. And yet, I understand their distance. We all cope in our own ways. But when no one speaks the truth — when the murder, the suicide, the overdose go unnamed — the silence doesn’t just sit in the air. It seeps into relationships. It builds resentment, fuels misunderstandings, and turns shared loss into separate, lonely battles.

Speaking doesn’t fix everything. It won’t rewind time or erase the pain. But it’s the only thing that can keep grief from swallowing every other part of your life whole.

Speaking the Unspeakable

The first time I said it out loud without my voice breaking, it felt like reclaiming a piece of my own life:

My oldest brother, Glenn, died by suicide.
My baby brother, Alexander, was murdered while incarcerated.
My best friend, Jess, was murdered.
My childhood friend, Jenny, died of an overdose while in jail.
My husband’s older brother, Travis died by suicide.

I say it this way on purpose. Not “passed away.” Not “left us.” Not “went too soon.” Those words might feel softer, but they erase the truth. And the truth matters — because naming it stops the stigma from owning the story.

Speaking the unspeakable doesn’t make the pain worse. It makes it seen. It tells the world that my loved ones’ deaths weren’t too shameful to talk about. It opens a door for others to step through with their own unspoken stories.

There’s power in choosing the words yourself. In refusing to let headlines, rumors, or whispered versions write the ending for you. When you say “homicide,” “suicide,” “overdose,” you’re not just describing a death — you’re making a statement: I will not hide this. I will not hide them.

And every time you speak it, you make it a little easier for someone else to speak theirs.

Practical Ways to Speak

Speaking the unspeakable doesn’t have to mean shouting it from a stage. It can start small. It can start safe. But it has to start.

1. Say it to yourself first.
Look in the mirror and name it exactly as it is. “My brother was murdered.” “My friend died of an overdose.” “My husband’s brother died by suicide.” Saying it out loud to yourself helps your body and mind learn that these words will not destroy you.

2. Write it down — unedited.
In a journal, on a scrap of paper, in a note on your phone. Don’t soften it. Don’t euphemize it. Let the raw words live on the page. You don’t have to share it yet.

3. Share it with one safe person.
Choose someone who can hold space without flinching. Let them know, “I need to say this exactly as it is, and I need you to hear me.”

4. Use their name in conversation.
Whether it’s at the dinner table or with a friend over coffee, speak your loved one’s name and their truth. “Glenn died by suicide.” “AJ was murdered.” This keeps them human, not just a tragedy.

5. Create art or ritual that names the loss.
Paint it. Stitch it into fabric. Write it into a poem. Build a grief altar with a card that states the truth. These are ways to “speak” without using your voice.

6. Challenge euphemisms — gently, but firmly.
When someone says, “They passed,” and it doesn’t feel right, you can reply, “Yes — they died by suicide.” This models openness for others.

7. Take it public when you’re ready.
Post their name and their truth online. Submit their story to a memorial page. Attend a vigil. Your courage may be the spark someone else needs.

Speaking the unspeakable isn’t about forcing yourself into vulnerability before you’re ready — it’s about refusing to let shame be the final editor of your story.

A Call to Courage

September is Suicide Prevention Month, but prevention is only part of the story. What comes after matters too — the silence, the stigma, the way grief is pushed into the shadows. For every life saved, there are families learning how to live with the ache of the ones they couldn’t save.

I carry their names with me:
Glenn — my oldest brother, who died by suicide.
Alexander — my youngest brother, murdered while incarcerated.
Jess — my best friend, murdered.
Jenny — my childhood friend, who died of an overdose while in jail.
And my husband’s brother, who also died by suicide.

I will not hide them. I will not trade the truth for comfort.

Speaking their stories out loud doesn’t bring them back, but it keeps them from being erased. It pushes back against the lie that certain kinds of deaths should be whispered about or left unmentioned. And every time I speak, I hope it makes space for someone else to do the same — to name their person, to refuse shame, to crack open the silence that’s been choking them.

If you are carrying an unspeakable grief, I see you. Your loss is real. Your person mattered. And their truth deserves to be said in full light.