When my partner, Alex, and I moved in together on January 15, 2021, I really thought that things were finally happening for me. We were in love and excited to start a life together, and we felt extremely lucky to find a house to rent that suited our lifestyle. Alex needed a garage to easily access the equipment to run his building maintenance business, and a room to use as his office. I wanted a room as well to create a multipurpose space that could function as my office and art studio. We were planning to set up a gym in the basement and build a skate ramp in the backyard. It was going to be awesome. But later that year, on June 3, Alex took his own life and everything changed.
I had a few visits from friends and acquaintances those first few days after Alex passed. With the COVID pandemic and all the restrictions around indoor gatherings, most of them were seeing my home for the first time, so they couldn't help but share their thoughts:
“What a beautiful home!”
“Your art studio is just perfect!”
“Oh wow look at your skate ramp!”
Unfortunately, they hadn’t yet arrived at the conclusion that I wouldn’t get to keep any of it because in a few weeks I would have to find a new place to live. My sadness magnified as I started to realize that even though I had just lost Alex, soon I would also lose everything else. It would not be until a year later that a facilitator in my Suicide Grief Support Group would introduce me to the concept of Secondary Losses.
I knew well that Alex was as dead as he could be. After all, I had been the one who found his body that morning. But it was something very small the days that followed that nudged me toward my new reality: the loud noises of the garbage truck making its way through the back alley. It was recycling day and Alex was the one who used to take out our recycling bins. He’s gone. I must do it, was my first thought. I sprung out of bed still confused by the absence of Alex and overwhelmed by my new responsibilities. Between whimpers, I dragged the recycling bins to the back alley hoping that if I could at least get this one little chore done, then maybe I would be able to deal with everything else. Over and over again, I would be reminded of the harsh reality that this world doesn’t stop for anyone, no matter what you are going through.
After a long day of paperwork, packing, and running errands, I would unwind and gather my strength for the next day by sitting on the back porch with my cat Nimbus, enjoying the warm summer air and the soft hues of dusk in the evening sky. It was a moment of calm and beauty in the midst of horror and tragedy. I remember explaining to my confused self what was happening: Alex died and everything changed and this is your new life now. It’s not what you had planned. It’s something different, yet to be determined. Whatever you had is gone. Let it go in order to build something new. In those moments, I was guiding my mind from a place of resistance to a situation that I didn’t want to go through to acceptance and curiosity for this new reality.
When my birthday arrived three months later, I felt I had aged not one year but many given how loaded the past year had been with profound experiences. Love, pain, trauma, and grief had changed me in ways that I would continue to unravel in the months and years to come. Alex had changed me, and our relationship and his death completely shook my belief system and everything I thought I knew about life and myself. This experience had changed everything and nothing could go back to the way it was, not even myself.
The truth is, I didn’t know who I would become once the weight of grief settled, but curiosity became my superpower. I immersed myself in everything I could find about grief and trauma, wanting to understand what was happening to me and what to expect. Writing then helped me unpack and make sense of the events leading to Alex’s death and my own emotions in a safe and private space.
Even though I knew Alex’s death had changed everything and that now I was facing a new life, I didn’t fully embrace the process until a year and a half later when a medical diagnosis threatened to take my health away, in addition to losing a big financial investment and the sense of security that came with it. I couldn’t help but wonder whether I kept losing the things that matter to me because I had not yet accepted my new reality. Until then, I was still thinking in terms of my life minus Alex, minus our relationship, minus our home, minus all the things I had lost. But then it finally hit me: It’s time to build something new because everything else is gone.
Fast-forwarding to 2025, I started January ready to crush my goals. Health is always at the top of my list. Alex’s death took a toll on me and my health journey has been a bumpy ride. So I made an appointment with a highly-recommended acupuncturist hoping to boost my immune system and become one of those people who take the odd sick day here and there.
During my first session, I had to walk my acupuncturist through my symptoms and history. My eyes watered the moment I started talking about Alex’s suicide and how it had impacted my physical and mental health. I don’t usually feel like crying when I talk about him but that day I did. I think that feeling already physically weak augmented my emotional fragility. But it was more than that. I cried because I’m still grieving the person I used to be. I don’t remember being so anxious, or feeling dread, or just frightened. I lost parts of myself in this process and gain others, both positive and negative. I keep discovering new things about myself that I don’t always like, things that make my life harder.
Secondary Losses
When I joined a Suicide Grief Support Group in 2022, the facilitator explained that we would be grieving a lot more than the loss of our person while handing out a list of secondary losses. Just a heads up, there are 23 of them and this is not even an exhaustive list. But below are the ones that impacted me the most:
Loss of Feeling Safe
I don’t always feel safe in this world. “Something terrible is going to happen,” Alex would prophesy with big eyes full of terror. His tragic death turned me into a bit of a scaredy cat. Not all the time, but in my bad days, I can hear those words inside my head. However, I can’t tell if they are mine or his. For weeks and months, I lived close to the darkness of his pain—a pain so strong it could engulf everything, like a black hole leaving no trace of life. His pain leeched on me and sometimes I realize that I’m still carrying traces of his sadness.
Loss of Innocence
I was so naive when I met Alex that no matter how many times he hinted at the desire to end his life, I didn’t pick up on it. He would often threaten to go away, to leave where no one could find him. But I never imagined he was talking about suicide until he said the words outright. Experiencing Alex’s death is like carrying a flashlight powerful enough to expose the deepest pains lurking in every dark corner of the world.
My homework every day is to collect evidence that the world is safe, that things can indeed go well, that there’s love, beauty, and kindness. It’s not an easy task in a world like ours, but whenever things go wrong and I’m feeling defeated and hopeless, I remind myself that I can always choose to build something entirely new from the broken pieces of what once was.
Have you experienced secondary losses in your own journey? I’d love to hear your thoughts—feel free to share in the comments or reach out if you’d like to connect.
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