There are moments in life that split you in two.
Before.
And after.
For me, that moment came in 2003—when I found out my brother died by suicide.
Even now, saying it out loud carries weight. Suicide doesn’t just take someone. Instead, it rearranges the whole room. It changes how your brain stores memories. It alters how you hear silence. Over time, it even shifts the way you look at other people moving through the world—because suddenly, you start wondering what they might be carrying that you can’t see.
In the beginning, though, I didn’t have language for any of it.
What I had instead was grief.
Alongside it came shock.
And underneath it all lived a kind of pain that didn’t know where to go.
So, like so many of us do when life breaks open, I tried to make something out of it.
The Candle of Hope
I’ve always been a maker. A builder. Someone who tries to bring light into a room—even when the room feels unbearably heavy.
Somewhere in the middle of that early grief, I created something I needed for myself: a candle.
I called it The Candle of Hope.
At first, it was simple. A symbol. A small flame that quietly said, I’m still here. It became a way to honor my brother without having to explain the entire story every time someone looked at me.
Over time, however, that candle became more than a product.
It became a mission.
I built a business around it—not just to sell something, but to start conversations. Through that work, I raised awareness around suicide. I placed a visible, tangible reminder into the world that mental health matters… that suicide loss is real… and that we can’t keep pretending it only happens to “other people.”
The Work That Changed Me
That single candle brought me into rooms I never expected to be in.
For one thing, I sat on the board of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP).
Along the way, I became a gatekeeper in my community.
Through training and experience, I learned how to recognize risk—and how to show up without fear.
Gradually, something else became clear.
The stigma around mental illness was everywhere.
Not always loud.
Not always cruel.
But constant.
It showed up in whispered conversations.
It surfaced in avoidance.
It appeared when grief became something people expected you to “get over” instead of carry.
Most painfully, it showed up in how often mental illness didn’t seem to count unless it looked like something we could prove.
After all, we can put a cast on a broken arm.
We can point to it.
We can watch it heal.
But a broken mind?
A suicidal mind?
A mind in unbearable pain?
That’s harder to see.
And far too often, what we don’t see… we dismiss.
Because of that, I started speaking.
I wasn’t afraid to ask hard questions then—and I’m still not afraid now when it matters.
Silence, after all, doesn’t save lives.
From Candles to Conversations
Eventually, my focus began to shift.
The candle was powerful. It truly was.
Still, I realized I didn’t want the conversation to end at the checkout button.
Instead, I wanted it to go deeper, I just didn’t know how until a few years later.
That realization is part of why my work evolved into storytelling.
Now, rather than offering one symbol of hope, I get to hold space for something bigger:
Stories.
Stories that weave into my own in ways that continue to surprise me.
Stories that create moments of relating and understanding—especially for those who have lived this… and even for those who haven’t.
Grief does something strange. It teaches you to listen differently. It trains you to hear what isn’t being said.
That’s what I try to do as a host.
I don’t just ask questions.
I create space.
Lisa’s Story—and What It Reflected Back to Me
In my conversation with Lisa Sugarman, we talked about suicide loss in a way that was honest, tender, and real.
Lisa lost her father—and then, decades later, she lost him again when she learned the truth about how he really died.
Her story is powerful on its own. Still, it touched something deep in me. It reminded me what happens when grief is carried in isolation… and what can change when the truth is finally spoken out loud.
At the end of our conversation, Lisa shared something I’ll carry with me for a long time:
“I appreciate the delicate questions you ask and offered me a safe place to go to places with my story I haven’t gone before.”
I sat with that for a while after we recorded.
Because that’s it.
That’s the work.
That’s what this podcast is to me now.
Why This Storytelling Work Matters
I’ve healed in many ways since 2003. Even so, I don’t believe healing means forgetting. Nor do I believe it means “moving on.”
Instead, healing means finding a way to carry what happened—without letting it swallow you whole.
For a long time, my way of carrying it was a candle.
Now, my way of carrying it is a microphone.
It looks like listening.
It sounds like reflecting.
It feels like staying present.
And it means creating a space where someone can say the hard thing out loud—and still feel safe afterward.
Yes, this work helps other people.
At the same time, it helps me.
Because every story I hear teaches me something new about grief… about love… about survival… and about what it really means to keep going.
Maybe that’s the purpose that rose from my brother’s death.
Not that it happened for a reason.
Not that it was meant to be.
But that I choose—every day—to turn what I’ve lived through into something that might help someone else feel less alone.
Even just for a moment.
If You’re Struggling
If any part of Lisa’s story—or my own—resonates with you, please hear this:
You don’t have to carry it alone.
Reach out. Talk to someone. Try again if the first person isn’t the right fit.
There are people who will listen.
There are resources that can help.
And there is hope—sometimes in the smallest places.
Even a flame.
Even a story.
Even one conversation.
From my healing heart to yours,
Your loving podcast host, Heather 🤍
