I never imagined I would write about this, at least not so soon. The wounds are still fresh, and the memories are still raw. For a long time, I chose silence over sharing, partly because I didn’t have the words to express what we had gone through, and partly because the heartbreak was too overwhelming to articulate. But time has a way of giving pain some space to settle, and today, I’m ready to speak — not only for myself but for countless others who may be suffering in silence. This is a story about my daughter, her best friend Dhar, and a tragedy that has changed us forever. More importantly, it is a story about mental health, suicide, and the urgent need for awareness, compassion, and action in our communities.
In October last year, my daughter lost her best friend to suicide. Dhar wasn’t just another name or face in a yearbook — he was like family. He was a regular presence in our home, often laughing in the kitchen with us, lounging on the couch, or brainstorming school projects with my daughter. His energy filled the room. He was bright, warm, and had a spark that made people gravitate toward him. So, when news of his passing reached us, it didn’t just shatter my daughter — it left our entire household reeling. There are no words to adequately describe the heaviness of losing someone so young, so deeply woven into your life.
What followed was one of the darkest times I’ve ever experienced as a parent. My daughter, once full of life and light, spiraled into a deep depression. It was like watching a candle flicker in a windstorm, unsure whether it would hold on or be snuffed out. I could see her struggling to make sense of what had happened, questioning everything, including her own existence. The grief was unbearable. She was grieving the loss of her best friend, and I was grieving the version of my child that seemed to be slipping away. I barely slept during those weeks. I would wake in the middle of the night just to check that she was still breathing, still here. I was terrified that her pain might pull her into the same abyss that had taken Dhar.
After many sleepless nights and countless conversations, I finally found a therapist who could see her. Getting her to agree wasn’t easy, but thankfully, after a few sessions, I saw some light returning to her eyes. Therapy began to help, even if just a little. My mother and I took her to visit Dhar’s grave so she could say goodbye — or at least, try to. Standing in that cemetery, watching my daughter fall apart, is a moment etched into my soul. As a parent, you want nothing more than to take your child’s pain away. But grief doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, the best you can do is just stand there and hold them as they cry.
This experience opened my eyes to something we often don’t talk about enough: the mental health crisis in our youth. Suicide is now one of the leading causes of death among young people worldwide. And yet, the stigma around mental illness persists. We teach our children to look both ways before crossing the road, to say no to drugs, and to be cautious around strangers. But we don’t teach them enough about managing emotions, asking for help, or recognizing signs of mental distress in themselves and others. And we, as adults, aren’t always equipped to recognize those signs either.
There were no obvious red flags with Dhar. That’s the part that still haunts me. He smiled, he laughed, he texted funny memes. But something was clearly going on beneath the surface. That’s the cruel thing about mental illness — it can be invisible, masked by a smile or hidden behind a joke. That’s why we, as parents, friends, and community members, need to pay closer attention. We need to look for subtle changes: withdrawal from activities, sudden mood shifts, changes in sleep or eating patterns, or even offhand comments that hint at hopelessness or despair.
Prevention starts with conversation. It starts with creating spaces where young people feel safe to speak, without fear of judgment or ridicule. We must normalize talking about mental health the same way we talk about physical health. Just as we don’t shame someone for having diabetes or a broken bone, we must not shame someone for struggling with anxiety, depression, or suicidal thoughts.
As parents, our role is critical. We must be present, not just physically but emotionally. We must listen — really listen — without always rushing to give advice or fix things. Sometimes, our children just need to be heard. We must also model healthy emotional habits. It’s okay to show vulnerability, to admit when we’re having a hard day. When kids see that, they learn that emotions are human, not something to be hidden.
Community support is equally vital. Schools need to have trained counselors, not just for academic guidance but for emotional well-being. Teachers should be trained to recognize signs of mental health struggles. Peers should be educated on how to support one another — to know when to speak up, when to offer help, and when to seek adult intervention. Churches, community centers, sports teams — all of these can play a role in creating a culture of care and openness.
And yes, the government must do more. We need policies that prioritize mental health funding, that make therapy affordable and accessible, that train professionals in trauma-informed care, and that destigmatize mental illness through nationwide awareness campaigns. Mental illness need not always end in suicide. But without timely support, it can. Conversely, a person who appears mentally healthy may be silently suffering — smiling on the outside, yet dying inside. We must understand that anyone can be vulnerable, and the risk doesn’t always announce itself.
On a personal note, I’ve found unexpected solace in the work of Dan Reynolds, lead singer of Imagine Dragons. He has been open about his struggles with depression and is a passionate advocate for mental health awareness. His honesty has helped reduce stigma and encouraged others, including myself and my daughter, to speak more openly about these issues. There’s a certain comfort in knowing that even those in the limelight, those we admire, face similar battles and choose to keep going.
Dhar’s death broke us. But in time, it also opened our hearts to the importance of mental health awareness. It made us more compassionate, more observant, and more determined to speak out. My daughter is still healing — healing is never linear — but she is here, and that is everything. Every conversation we have, every laugh we share, every tear we wipe away is a reminder that life is worth fighting for.
If you're reading this and you’re struggling, please know that you are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And if you're a parent, check in with your kids — even the ones who seem fine. If you're a friend, ask the tough questions and be brave enough to sit with someone in their pain. We don’t always have to fix things. Sometimes, just being there can be enough.
Suicide is preventable. Mental health is manageable. But only if we care enough to act, to listen, and to love each other fiercely — especially when the world gets dark.
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