June 7, 2025, marked 10 years since we lost our brother, grandson, nephew and son Hunter to suicide. It seems both like yesterday and ages ago that our world changed irrevocably. What is amazing is that both can be true at once.
Our “party of six” immediately became a “party of five,” and that sense of ruptured identity was profoundly dislocating. Our bedrock in the world was no longer, and this new reality defied traditional expectations where parents pre-decease children, high school students matriculate to college, and college grads move on to pursue anticipated career paths. With Hunter’s death, those norms were shattered, and, in their wake, we stepped tentatively forward, fell more than a few times, engaged fitfully with one another and sometimes reluctantly with others outside our immediate experience until we gradually but consistently made forward movement.
A central tenet of “grief work” is that every relationship with the deceased is unique and thus, so too must be every expression of grief. While immobilized at first, we eventually claimed our own agency to determine how to connect with Hunter, and through these connections, to define our “love after loss” relationship with him. How? Walking, talking, therapy, college, exercise, ultramarathons, sailing, meditation, writing, grad school, board games, service to others, work, the distraction of work, nature, sobriety, moves across the U.S., marriage and partnership. And through it all, it’s been OK to not be OK if still on the path toward being more OK.
Ten years ago, we would not have dared to imagine our present state, our stability, the children’s engagement with and reliance on one another (including their welcomed partners and spouses), the utter joy we feel in being in proximity to one another. Yes, we would have hoped for all of this, but our imagination, dulled in the morass of loss, was not capable yet to see this potential for resilience, growth and fortitude. Our children are beacons of hope to all who’ve been wounded by life’s vicissitudes, most especially to Mark and me.
With that stability, we have found the space to miss Hunter for who he was and not simply to struggle with how he died. This spring we gathered for a milestone birthday with one of the children’s cousins and together sorted a few remaining boxes of Hunter’s things … we marveled at his taste in clothing (good and bad), laughed at childhood memories sparked by his K-8 yearbooks, modeled his St. Patrick’s Day kit, and located a treasured disco ball to be returned to a beloved cousin. The mood was light, irreverent stories were savored, and Hunter’s exuberance was in the forefront.
Hunter lived a life full of complexity. He was a sweet tow-headed little boy who grew – according to his sibs – into a playful, empathetic, charismatic, curious, loyal, stubborn, impulsive, grateful, creative and rule-bending raconteur. He loved fiercely and found joy in both the quotidian and the extraordinary. He would have adored PJ, Regan’s partner, and Alyssa, Lawlor’s spouse. An elementary school pal wrote in a condolence note that “a hug from Hunter could turn your day around.” That memory – utterly physical and metaphysical at the same time – holds as true today as when Colleen wrote it. And that is the memory we hold most dear.
On behalf of Mark and our children, thank you to all who have walked with us these last 10 years. Accompaniment – standing alongside another with no purpose but to be present, to witness, without the capacity to fix – is among life’s most difficult tasks, and we are so very grateful to each of you. We’ve seen, yes, but more importantly felt the generosity of your hearts and have been uplifted by your presence, your murmurings of affirmation, and the joy you’ve re-ignited in us. The power of community is real, and we thank you for joining ours.