This article originally appeared on Elisha Roche Substack, The Self Love Lounge . Sign up here.

It's the one thing everyone thinks won't happen to them. Until it does.

One day you're on the phone to a loved one — laughing, listening, sharing little details about your life, smiling into a screen. And the next, they're gone. No explanation. No final goodbye.

You're left with no understanding. No closure. No last smile or squeeze of the hand.

It's the kind of experience that throws you into the deep end of life and asks whether you're going to sink or swim. All you can do is just bob there and try get enough air.

It reminds us that we aren't invincible. And that the 'other people' who struggle with mental health challenges… are actually us. Just at different points in our story.

I want to share a little of what it's like to lose someone to suicide, because I don't think it's talked about enough. It can be a deeply lonely journey. And maybe, by sharing my experience, someone might feel a little less alone in their own grief.

And maybe, it might bring a little more hope.

December 22, 2024.

My sister sent me a photo of her Christmas tree. One of those real trees — small, unimpressive, but kind of cute. A bit of tinsel at the base, a few rogue baubles hanging from drooping branches, some wrapped presents gathered around.

With it she wrote: "See my tree this year, every year it will grow bigger and bigger 😂"

I replied: "Hahaha, at least it's real. I rate that."

"Yeah sis. It's the real, real deal," she said.

I wrote back: "You'll have a full-height Christmas treat (I meant tree) by the time you're 60."

December 25.

After a phone call where she told me she'd been outside on a ladder putting up Christmas lights, she sent me a photo of the front of the house. On the phone, she'd made it sound like she was Clark Griswold creating a light masterpiece. She was so proud of herself — especially because she'd just moved into a new rental and was extra motivated to decorate.

The photo showed… one delicate line of lights along the roof. The garage light was brighter.

I laughed to myself. My sister. Forever a drama queen.

We exchanged a few texts over Christmas and New Year. She spent Christmas Day with her boys and friends. I was with family. It had been a long time since we'd spent Christmas together — her in Cairns, me on the Gold Coast. I can't even remember when the last time was.

January 2, 2025.

We spoke on the phone. A friend had reached out to me saying she was worried about my sister, so I called to check in. My sister mentioned a hospital visit but said it was nothing to worry about. She told me she was doing better. That this was going to be her year.

I gave her my usual hype speech: "Yeah sis, this is your year. Leave the BS in the past. Focus on you and the boys."

Over the next couple of weeks, we spoke a few more times. She told me about seeing a psychologist — confronting, but helpful. I told her how proud I was of her.

We'd both grown up in foster care and carried things in our own ways. I'd always found it easier to face our past. She had struggled a little more. But she was optimistic now. She had a plan. She was taking time off work. She had supportive friends and professional help around her. She was doing all the right things.

January 25.

I was lying out the back in the sun — something I didn't often do, but you know… new year. My sister called. She sounded upbeat. We chatted about life.

She'd decided to leave her job at the car dealership because it felt toxic. She was moving into real estate and eventually property sales. Honestly, I couldn't think of a more perfect career shift for her — she was beautiful, charismatic, and amazing at sales (you have to be to sell overpriced paint protection).

She'd already lined up a job and was completing the required assessments. Intense, she said — but nearly done.

Somehow, we ended up talking about our childhood. She reminded me of when I was about seven, and she was eleven, sharing a bunk bed at our grandparents' house. I insisted on having the top bunk — she eventually gave in. Then one night, I wet the bed… and it trickled down onto her.

We laughed. That full body, crying kind of laugh. I hadn't laughed like that in a long time.

After about an hour, my partner came home and we ended the call.

January 29.

She called again. She had been in court that day over an ex-partner who had done some terrible things to her and other women. She sounded rattled but relieved that it was over. She was determined that no one else would go through what she had.

I was running around the house, half listening while grabbing washing and heating food before work. I wasn't as present as I wanted to be. I told her I'd call her back later.

That day, I sent her my podcast episode about growing up in foster care: "Hey sis, I did a podcast ep. Have a listen if you'd like."

She read it. She didn't reply.

January 30.

That same friend messaged again. She couldn't reach my sister and was worried.

I remembered telling my sister the day before to turn her phone off if she needed space. But her friend said this wasn't like her. They spoke every day.

That evening, I tried calling. No answer. I stood leaning on the kitchen bench, debating what to do. I called my sister's eldest boy, who was staying with his dad. He was worried too, but had no more information.

I was beginning to feel a little worried, but I told myself: She's probably asleep. Her phone's flat. She's fine.

Then my phone rang and anxiety spiked in me.

It was her ex-partner — the father of her eldest son, who I had been on the phone to only a few moments ago. He didn't speak for what felt like forever.

Then he apologised, his voice shaking.

And I knew… what no part of me was ready to accept.

"What happened? What happened?" I gasped.

"The police were just here. They found your sister in her house. She's gone. I'm so sorry."

I hung up. A scream left my body involuntarily. I dropped to the floor. Gasping for air. Tears pouring down my face.

I spoke to her yesterday. She read my message. This can't be real.

I sat curled on the floor, my partner holding me, completely paralysed. My mind racing: What did I miss? What could I have done? Why did I hang up so quickly the other day?

The guilt came rushing in like a tsunami after a powerful earthquake.

The weeks that followed blurred into organising, planning, cleaning — doing whatever was necessary just to stay upright. If you've ever lost someone, you'll know the numbness that carries you through those early days. It's how you survive the phone calls. How you tell your mum that her daughter has died. How you say the words over and over until tears no longer pour down your face.

We held my sister's funeral at her favourite beach. We scattered her ashes into the ocean and held each other close. The same beach where she once took me for breakfast. I have a photo of her big toothy smile, sunglasses too big for her face.

I'm sure she was there. I'm sure she thought it was a beautiful funeral.

The months after were slow and painful. I lost my sense of self. I still went to work. Saw friends occasionally. Showed up. But behind a mask.

During that time, I watched a documentary about a tornado that ripped through Joplin in the US. The raw account of people fearing for their life, gripping onto whatever they could, just to survive the storm.

That's what grief felt like. An emotional twister ripping through your life, and you're just trying to survive the next moment.

I read some grief books and found a counsellor who helped me unpack the guilt. I leaned on people close to me. I kept going to the gym, although I teared up mid-set. I kept eating, although I wasn't hungry. I kept walking my dog and putting one foot in front of the other.

I wasn't very present in anything. And that was hard too — not just the loss, but the self-inflicted pressure that I should somehow still operate at optimal capacity or 'be happy by now'.

It required digging deep and finding the humility and compassion to accept that I was doing the best I could, given the circumstances. And honestly? That was actually pretty bloody good.

I can see more light now. Some days it's only about as bright as my sister's Christmas decorations — hardly visible — but it's still there.

And while I wish, every day, that things were different, I can also see the precious lessons this experience has given me.

That life really is short, and we only get one go at it.

So, feel the heartbreak. Let yourself grieve what has been lost. But when you're ready — even if it's slowly, even if it's imperfectly — gather your strength and keep going. Not as the person you were before, but with a deeper sense of meaning, and a softer kind of courage.

And I can only Hope… you don't let your life be guided by 'one day.' Because one day, the moment you thought you'd come back to won't be there.

One day has a quiet way of turning into I wish.

So love while you can.

Choose what matters.

And follow what feels true.

In memory of my beautiful sister, Hope.

If you or anyone you know needs to speak with an expert, please contact your GP or in Australia, contact Lifeline (13 11 14), Kids Helpline (1800 55 1800) or Beyond Blue (1300 22 4636), all of which provide trained counsellors you can talk with 24/7.

Elisha Roche is a writer who shares honest, deeply personal reflections on self-worth, grief, identity and the messy process of rebuilding a life that actually feels like your own. After years of chasing a version of success that looked good on paper but felt empty, she began writing about what it really takes to start again.

She publishes regular essays on her Substack, The Self Love Lounge , where she explores the raw, real and courageous work of learning to trust and love yourself again. Follow Elisha on Instagram here.

Feature Image: Supplied.