I Will Hug You When You Get Here: Acknowledging the Loss of a Sibling at The Overnight Walk

The 2025 Overnight Walk takes place in New York City on June 21, 2025. Learn more here.

If I close my eyes, I can transport myself back in time to February 18, 1991, when I was nine years old, watching cartoons, and my 13-year-old brother Steven burst through the door, in tears and filled with rage, telling me had… a plan. At that age, I didn’t understand what “taking one’s own life” meant. Steven kept asking me, “What will you call me in my next life?” My mom had died in the hospital five days after I was born, and I had never seen her again. I wondered whether Steven understood that if he went through with his plan, I wouldn’t see him again, either. On some level, I knew he longed to be with our mother.

It was a complicated time. After my mother’s death, we had been left with a father who was unequipped to process the loss of his wife and parent two young children. I lived with our aunt and uncle, who later adopted me; Steven lived with our dad. Steven came to my house every day after school, and I went to their house on weekends and for dinner sometimes.

I had never seen Steven the way he was that day, telling me of his plan to take his own life — a secret that for the rest of my life I would regret not sharing with anyone. 

The next day, it felt as though that conversation had never happened. Steven was calm, extra loving, and gifted me his music collection, along with recordings of our voices and favorite songs on cassette tape. (I realize now that giving away prized possessions is a warning sign for suicide.) We were immersed in enjoying each other's company. I went off to the dentist to get a cavity filled, not realizing this would be the last time I saw my brother. I don’t even think I hugged him goodbye.

That night was a busy blur, filled with adults who were shaking and in tears, coming and going. No one explained what was going on. My cousin Joe, around 16 at the time, came over with my uncle, and kept me busy with drawing and games. Joe kept saying, “Everything is going to be okay,” even though he realized everything was not okay. But I am forever grateful he was there to reassure me that night.

The wake and the funeral followed: everything moving rapidly and in slow motion all at once.

And then, life without Steven began.

I became “that girl” to whom no one knew what to say or how to be around. I walked down hallways at school, past people talking about me and sharing rumors of the “how” of Steven’s death. I was a scared little girl, harboring the fact that I had known of Steven’s plan and didn’t tell anyone. Weeks later, in the top drawer of my desk, I found an apology note from Steven, asking me to forgive him for leaving me behind.

I still have moments of overwhelming guilt of what I could have done differently that day.

Fast forward to February 19, 2013, a date on the calendar I tended to stay in bed, silently contending with the unprocessed loss of both Steven and my mother. But I had recently given birth to my youngest daughter, E. The grief I still felt was compounded by postpartum depression. I felt an overwhelming anxiety that something was going to happen to me or to someone I loved, and I was scared to live.

But E was the miracle who forced me out of hiding, eager to find a way to celebrate this little life. I was looking for resources, as well as a place to encourage donations to for E’s Christening. It was then that my cousin Joe told me about the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s Out of the Darkness Overnight Walk. At the time, the idea of walking many miles in the middle of the night seemed intimidating. But I decided to look into AFSP, and its Community Walks. Learning more about the organization, I began to donate to support initiatives such as education, research, advocacy, and loss support.

I didn’t consider attending The Overnight again until 2016, when I heard it was in New York City, and decided to sign up. I was paired with a Walker Coach named Erin, who helped me in the months leading up to The Overnight in terms of gradually building up stamina for the Walk and raising money from others for my participation. I felt supported and ready.

But on the day of the event, I almost didn’t show up. I was standing on the platform waiting for the train, still hesitating, when I received a voicemail from Erin saying, “Just get on the train and I will hug you when you get here.”

That was my first Overnight.

I have now attended this annual event nine times, in different host cities each year. I am one of many people who show up each year, greeting familiar faces and new ones, knowing we all understand, whether you’re a survivor of suicide loss, someone facing their own mental health struggles, walking in support of someone you care about, or simply because you believe in the cause and want to walk through the night, sending the message that suicide must be brought out of the darkness.

I am forever grateful to Erin and all my Walk Coaches over the years, especially Heather and Sam, who have all supported me through dark days, anxious days, happy moments, and helped me have many ‘pinch me’ moments that felt so special I almost couldn’t believe I was experiencing them: commemorating Steven by lighting a luminaria bag, his candle helping to light the way for Walkers toward the finish line; hearing his name read out by AFSP’s CEO, Bob Gebbia; being featured as the Closing Ceremony speaker at the D.C. Overnight in 2023; and having my voice featured in one of the video ads for The Overnight.

Walking in The Overnight, and finding others through AFSP who have lost loved ones to suicide, has aided me in my healing journey in ways I could never have imagined. My AFSP Family includes people who were once strangers, who have walked miles and miles by my side, and are the literal definition of #KEEPGOING. I crave these connections. They are what keep me coming back to The Overnight to continue to heal, forgive myself, forgive Steven, carry my brother with me and feel less alone.

As I write this, I am preparing for my tenth Overnight, which is back again in New York City for 2025. I am sharing the city I love — and which reminds me of my brother — with another of my children, now 15, who is participating in their second Overnight. We all struggle sometimes, and I wanted them to be a part of the safe haven created at The Overnight: an event like no other, that provides a space of understanding, healing, stories, and a community of people sharing the same goal: to bring suicide out of the darkness. 

This has become the heart of my healing. At The Overnight, there is no stigma: only HOPE.

Learn more about The Overnight and the Out of the Darkness Community and Campus Walks.