My oldest brother phoned that morning, to see how we were. He ended the conversation with the usual salutation of “Got to go, love you sis!“ The next call I received was to tell me he was gone. In March 2015, my oldest brother, after years of battling with depression chose to end his life on his terms. None of my past experiences with loss prepared me for the overwhelming process of grieving one who chose to end their life. Numbness, rage, self-blame, unanswered questions, the what “ifs“ were haunting. The grief came in waves and the sorrow was uncontrollable. A neighbour reached out to comfort me. Sadly, I comforted her six months later when her husband chose to die by his own hand. I am not the same person I was four years ago. It took time, but I rose above the depression and anxiety that stole any joy in my life. It’s a permanent-bad solution for what can be a temporary problem. For the person committing this act, it’s over, but it leaves devastation in its wake.