11 years ago right now, I was participating in the the AFSP Overnight Walk in Dallas and tonight I was asked to represent the Maryland Chapter of AFSP at a gala. Below is the talk I gave (it was 20 minutes).

Thank you to the General Federation of Women’s Clubs of Maryland for inviting me to join you this evening.

As I was preparing tonight I was looking on your website and I was struck by your purpose:
“We advocate because there is a need, we volunteer because we are needed.”

That idea—being needed—is exactly what I want to talk with you about tonight.

Because the truth is, being needed doesn’t always look big.
It often looks quiet.
Ordinary.
Easy to miss.

And yet… it can change everything.

Now, I imagine most of you didn’t come tonight thinking,
“I can’t wait to hear a speech about suicide prevention.”

My husband often reminds me that not everyone spends their time talking about this work.

And I understand that.
It can feel like a heavy topic.

But my hope tonight is that you leave seeing it differently—
not just as serious work,
but as work that brings hope, light, and love into the world.

I often say I didn’t choose this cause.
This cause chose me.

Because before I ever stood in a room like this…
before I volunteered…
before I ever said the words “suicide prevention” out loud…

I was a daughter.

And my mom was filled with so much love.

Her name was Cecilia.

And she had this way about her—
she made people feel like they mattered.

Not in a big, performative way.
She would have never posted what she did on social media.

She remembered the details.
She checked in.
She showed up.

At the time, I thought that was just who she was.

I didn’t realize then—
that it was something the world desperately needs more of.

Because making someone feel like they matter isn’t complicated.

But it is powerful.

And it is often the difference between someone feeling seen…
or feeling invisible.

One of my favorite stories about my mom happened when we lived in Sundown, Texas.

Sundown is a tiny town—about 1,200 people, a blinking yellow light, and no Dairy Queen—just outside of Lubbock.

In Sundown, you don’t have mailboxes at your house.
You go to the post office.

And the town is so small, people could send you mail with just your name on it.

The woman at the post office would make sure it got to the right place.

But she wasn’t exactly known for being friendly.

She was kind of crabby.
Most people kept their distance.

She lived in a worn-down house that all the kids thought was haunted…
and her only company were her cats.

I never knew this until years later, But my mom would visit her.

She made strawberry bread throughout the year…
and she would bring it to different people.

Just making sure someone who felt invisible…
wasn’t.

And what I’ve come to understand over time
is that my mom didn’t do those things because they were easy.

She did them because she believed people mattered.

Even the ones others avoided.
Even the ones who were difficult to love.

And maybe especially those people.

That was who my mom was.

She loved in ways most people don’t.

And over time, she left very little of that love for herself.

We lost her to suicide the day after my 19th birthday.

There are moments that divide your life into before and after.

That was one of them.

And in the “after,” everything felt different.

Back in 1998, suicide was talked about much less than it is now.

For a long time, my grief, guilt, and shame stayed inside.

I learned quickly that talking about my mom made people uncomfortable.

And when people are uncomfortable, they often don’t know what to say.

So they say nothing.

And when they say nothing,
you start to feel like maybe you shouldn’t say anything either.

So I stopped talking about her.

And when I stopped talking about her,

I lost something more than just the ability to share her story.

I lost a connection to her.

Tomorrow marks 11 years since that began to change.

That’s when I participated in my first American Foundation for Suicide Prevention event—the Overnight Walk.

I had heard of AFSP before.

But it wasn’t until the walk came to Dallas that my sister and I signed up.

You see throughout the year AFSP has community and campus walks that are 2-3 miles… why my sister and I decided not to start with one of those but  instead of starting small, we chose a 16 to 18 mile walk through the night.

Looking back, I think part of that decision
wasn’t just about the distance.

It was about needing something significant enough
to match what we had been carrying.

We formed a team.
We called it Love Louder.

Because we wanted to love louder than the guilt, the shame, and the stigma that so often surrounds suicide.

And that one event changed my life.

Standing at the opening ceremony, surrounded by thousands of people who had all shown up for suicide prevention…

I realized I was somewhere different.

the way people were showing up was different.

Everyone was wearing a shirt that told their story.

Names of those lost
Pictures of lives cut short
Messages of hope and light

And many people wrote that they were walking for their own lived experience.

There was honesty there.
Vulnerability.
Courage.

As we walked through the night, I met people who understood in a way I had never experienced before.

We shared our stories.
We laughed.
We cried.

And for the first time…

I didn’t feel alone.

It’s the moment when something heavy you’ve been carrying by yourself
suddenly feels lighter,
because someone else understands.

I had found a place where I could talk about my grief—
but also about my mom.

Not just how she died…
but how she lived.

And that mattered more than I can explain.

Because when we only talk about how someone died,
we lose the fullness of who they were.

what I began to notice was this:

The more I spoke honestly about my experiences…
the more others did too.

People would pull me aside.
Send messages.

“Me too.”
“I’ve never told anyone this.”
“Thank you for saying what I couldn’t.”

And I started to understand something I hadn’t before:

Silence is where shame grows.
Silence is where stigma survives.
Silence is where people feel most alone.

And that silence isn’t always intentional.

Sometimes it’s fear.
Sometimes it’s uncertainty.
Sometimes it’s not wanting to say the wrong thing.

But even unintentional silence
can leave people feeling unseen.

So I started telling the truth.

Not because I was healed—
but because I needed to be honest.

But for one area… for years, I had quietly carried a fear.

Not about speaking like this.

But about a much smaller conversation.

The day my son would ask about my mom.

Because how do you explain something like that to a child?

How do you explain that someone you love deeply…
also struggled deeply?

I have dreaded explaining how this marvelous women who loved me more than anything decided to take her life. How do I say she left me, but I won’t leave him?

I didn’t avoid it.
But I didn’t rush it either.

And then one day, it happened.

My husband handed me a notebook he found while going through old boxes.

I opened it…
and immediately recognized my mom’s handwriting.

It was her journal.

From the summer before she died.

I sat there reading her words—
her thoughts,
her love for us,
her struggles.

I whispered to my husband that it was my mom’s journal

And that’s when my son looked up and asked:
“Who is your mom?”

And then:
“Do you miss her?”
“What happened to her?”

The questions I had been dreading for years…

And in that moment, I realized something surprising.

I didn’t need perfect words.

I just needed honest ones.

I told him her name.
I told him I missed her.
I told him her head was very sick.

And then he asked to see a picture.

I showed him one—
and he laughed at my big hair and shoulder pads.

I told him how much he reminds me of her.
He smiled.

And then, a few minutes later, he said,
“Mom, can I tell you something?”

“I love you.”

And in that moment…
the conversation I had feared the most
became one of the most beautiful moments I’ve ever had.

Because it reminded me of something simple, but profound:

Love is what connects us.
Love is what carries us.
Love is what keeps us here.

And sometimes, we make things more complicated than they need to be.

We think we need the perfect words.
The perfect timing.

But what people really need…
is presence.

And that’s when “Love Louder” took on a different meaning for me.
Not just loving others louder.

But loving myself louder.

You see, as I continued to read and reread my mom’s journal,
something stood out to me.

There was one part where she wrote:
“I, Cecilia, deserve to love myself.”

And I couldn’t stop thinking about that line.

Because as women, we are often taught—quietly, subtly—
that we should take care of everyone else first.

We feel selfish if we even think about putting ourselves first.

But reading those words…
and then looking at my little son…

I realized I had to change that thinking.

I saw my mom’s journal not just as a reflection of her pain—
but as a message to me.

A message I couldn’t ignore.

That I have to love myself louder than I had before.

Yes, for myself.
But also for my son.

So that he grows up seeing what that looks like.
So that he learns it’s okay to take care of himself, too.

Loving in the ways my mom couldn’t.
In the ways so many people struggle to.

Because when we do that—
we create space for others to do the same.

And that’s what suicide prevention really is… helping people realize they deserve love, from others but also from themselves.

It’s not about having the perfect words.

It’s about showing up.
Noticing.
Checking in.

Creating the kind of spaces my mom created—
where people feel like they matter.

And when I think about what it really means to love louder—
I’ve realized it’s not just a personal responsibility.
It’s a collective one.

Because creating a world where people feel seen, supported, loved, and not alone…
that takes all of us.

And that’s the work the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention is leading every single day.

They create spaces where people don’t have to feel alone.

Through community and campus walks across the United States,
people come not only to walk in remembrance of those we have lost,
but also to stand beside one another—
to say, without words: you are not alone… and we will not be silent.

But the work doesn’t stop there.

AFSP is in communities every day through education programs—
for adults, teens, and veterans—
helping people understand risk factors and warning signs,
but more importantly,
giving people the confidence to show up.

To have the conversation.
To ask the question.
To know what to say when someone is struggling.

Because so often, it’s not that people don’t care—
it’s that they don’t feel equipped.

And AFSP helps bridge that gap.

They are also leading advocacy efforts at both the state and national level.

How many of you have heard of 988?

That didn’t happen overnight.

It took years of advocacy from organizations like AFSP
to create a simple, accessible way for people in crisis to reach help.

And that work continues—
to ensure those resources are funded, supported, and available when people need them most.

AFSP also offers programs and support for those who have lost someone to suicide
or who have their own lived experience—

because healing doesn’t happen in isolation.

It happens in community.

And from a small group of individuals in 1987
who saw the need for suicide research funding,

AFSP has grown into the largest nonprofit leading this work in the country—

funding over $80 million in research
that has helped shape what we now understand about suicide prevention.

What we know—
how we talk about it,
how we respond,
how we support people—

so much of that exists because of this work.

They are creating opportunities for connection—
and connection is one of the most powerful protective factors we have.

But more than anything…

they are helping people feel seen.

The CEO of AFSP once said

“Our losses are so visible, but our saves aren’t.”

And that’s true in so many areas of life.

We see the outcomes.
We don’t always see the moments that led up to them.

We don’t always see the conversation that changed someone’s mind.
The check-in that came at just the right time.
The small act of kindness that reminded someone they mattered.

We may never know when that moment…
is the reason someone stays.

But that doesn’t make those moments any less important.

In fact, it makes them more important.

Because it means every single one of us
has the ability to make a difference—
often in ways we’ll never fully see.

And when I think about my mom—

I can’t help but wonder how many people she helped in ways I’ll never fully know.

And that brings me back to your purpose.

“We advocate because there is a need, we volunteer because we are needed.”

There is a need.

And people are needed.

People like you.

You don’t have to be an expert.
You don’t need perfect words.

Sometimes being needed looks like:

Checking in.
Asking one more question.
Listening without trying to fix.

Sitting with someone in a hard moment—
even when it’s uncomfortable.

Or learning to love yourself so others can do the same.

And sometimes, it looks like action.

Getting involved.
Learning more.
Showing up for organizations like AFSP.

Supporting the work—
so that more people have access to connection, resources, and hope.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it matters.

Because this work only continues
when people decide it matters.

I still miss my mom every single day.

That doesn’t go away.

But what has changed…
is what I do with that love.

I carry it differently now.

I try to live it out loud.

I try to be the kind of person she was—
someone who made people feel seen. But with remembering to love myself.

Because I believe this deeply:

The best way to honor the people we’ve lost
is not just to remember them—

but to continue the way they loved.

So if you take anything with you tonight, let it be this:

Don’t wait.
Don’t assume people know.
Don’t save your love for later.

Say it.
Show it.
Live it.

Love louder.

Because you never know
when that extra moment of connection…

might be the thing that saves a life.

My mom had a way of making people feel like they mattered.

That’s the kind of world I want to live in.

And it’s the kind of world we can create—

together.

Because when we love louder,

we remind people
they are not alone.

And sometimes…

that makes all the difference.