September marks Suicide Prevention Month, a time when organizations and communities rally to bring attention to an issue that often lurks in the shadows. For many, it’s a time to promote awareness, share resources, and encourage open dialogue. But for some of us, this month carries a weight that words can’t fully capture.

This September is especially difficult for me. Ten years ago, on Sept. 2, my son Tyler took his life at just 14 years old.

Despite every effort, every conversation, and every attempt to reach out, Tyler’s pain was greater than the help available to him.

And while I did everything I could to be there for him, the systems in place that should have supported him failed miserably.

The Illusion of Support

When Tyler began struggling, I reached out to his school, hoping for guidance and assistance. But what I found was a system ill-prepared to handle the reality of mental health crises. The standard line of “my door is always open” from school counselors was nothing more than a placating phrase, as effective as a wet napkin trying to catch a falling rock. The truth is, kids who are deeply hurting, those seriously contemplating suicide, aren’t walking into that open door. They’re not going to casually stroll in and say, “Hey, I’m struggling.”

Instead, they’re hiding in plain sight, carrying a burden that many adults can’t comprehend. And when these kids finally do make a move, it’s often too late. I brought Tyler to the school counselor, desperate to find help, but after a handful of visits, I was told, “He’s fine.”

He wasn’t.

And, when he left us, that counselor never reached out. Not a call. Not a letter. Not a word. It was as if Tyler’s struggle was just another statistic that didn’t make the cut for a second look.

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‘We Never Saw the Signs’ — The Empty Excuse

Schools and organizations love to default to “We never saw the signs.” But here’s the brutal truth: the signs are there if you’re willing to look. They’re in the changes in behavior, the withdrawn moments, the quiet cries for help that don’t always come in the form of words.

However, it takes effort, attention, and a willingness to engage beyond a generic “open-door” policy. It takes a proactive approach that doesn’t wait for kids to come forward but reaches out and meets them where they are, often in the silence of their struggles.

I visited Tyler’s school several times, armed with statistics and reports on youth suicide rates, trying to make them understand the urgency. Yet the response was minimal, a bureaucratic shrug that only became a half-hearted acknowledgment after Tyler was gone. It shouldn’t take a tragedy to get people to act. And yet, it often does.

The Denial That Hurts

One of the most infuriating things I encountered was other parents who said, “My kid would never do something like that.” It’s a comfortable lie people tell themselves to avoid facing the uncomfortable reality that kids can be hurting in ways that aren’t always visible. It’s easy to turn a blind eye, to dismiss the signs as “just a phase” or normal teenage angst. But the truth is, no one is immune. No child is above this risk.

Parents need to be attentive to these signs — every slight change in mood, every hint of despair. You can’t afford to ignore the faintest signals. I wake up constantly at 3 a.m., replaying the last time I saw Tyler’s face, the last hug, the last text.

It was a horrific text from his mother telling me what had happened, followed by his final goodbye to me. We had been divorced for nearly 10 years when this happened, but nothing prepares you for news like that. I can still hear his voice, feel his presence, and smell him. The memories are as vivid today as they were then.

The Reality of the Unseen Battle

Suicide isn’t something that just happens out of the blue. It’s often the result of a long, grueling battle that’s fought internally, unseen by most. Kids who truly intend to take their lives often don’t make public declarations. They don’t issue warnings; they find a way.

The resources that exist — hotlines, websites, and yes, even school counselors — can be lifelines, but only if they’re used effectively. In many cases, these tools feel like they’re set up to check boxes rather than save lives.

For Tyler, these resources fell short. They were band-aids on wounds that needed far more than just surface-level attention. I live every day with the agony of losing him, with a mammoth-sized hole in my chest that will never close. I’ve learned to live with the pain, but it’s no less severe than it was that first day. It’s a constant companion, a reminder of what was lost and what could have been if more had been done.

What Needs to Change

The “open-door” policy isn’t enough. We need a paradigm shift in how we approach mental health in schools and communities. This means mandatory mental health education that’s integrated into school curriculums, not just an optional seminar once a year.

It means counselors who are trained to recognize the subtle signs of severe depression and suicidal thoughts — not just those who wait for students to walk into their offices. And it means parents, educators, and community leaders who aren’t afraid to ask the tough questions and push for the right answers.

We also need to teach our kids that it’s OK not to be OK. That it’s OK to speak up, to seek help, and to keep talking even when it feels like no one is listening. And, more importantly, we need to be there for them, not just in words but in actions.

Related Story: Mentioning Suicide in Obituaries Can Help Loved Ones Grieve

Living with the Loss

There’s no cure for the kind of pain that comes from losing a child. It’s a wound that never heals, a constant ache that you learn to live with. Tyler’s absence is felt in every moment, every missed milestone, and every quiet second that should have been filled with his laughter.

His birthday is on Sept. 15, and every year, this month becomes a time I dread. I’m paralyzed every time I see 8:30 pm, the moment when I lost him. The song “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Green Day has taken on a new, painful significance for me.

It’s taken me a decade to find the strength to write about this, but my hope is that my story will reach someone who is struggling, who knows someone in a similar situation, and who can take the steps to prevent another parent from living this nightmare.

Suicide Prevention Month isn’t just about awareness; it’s about action. It’s about holding schools, communities, and ourselves accountable to do better, to see the signs, and to step in before it’s too late.

We owe it to our kids, to each other, and to those we’ve lost along the way. And, if sharing Tyler’s story can help just one family avoid this unimaginable pain, then his memory will continue to make a difference.

About the Author

GV Wire Producer Dean Kirkland is the founder and director of Gas and Gears, an independent film production company that has produced numerous television series and feature films, including the award-winning documentary “Racing Through The Forest” (2014).