September is Suicide Prevention Month, and for me, that has always been deeply personal. Eight years ago, on September 8, my oldest son, Cheyne, left this world by suicide.

I can still feel September coming before it arrives. My body knows. The heaviness often begins sometime in August — an almost unconscious bracing for the day. It happened again this year.

September carries other grief for me, too. I lost my beloved Shanti on September 11, and my father on September 18. Those losses have their own tender place in my heart. But September 8 is different. Losing my son was the most profound loss of my life. It changed me forever.

But something has shifted in me this year. September is also my birthday month. It reminds me that there are still things to celebrate. This year, I don't want grief to become the meaning of September any more than I want Cheyne's death to become the meaning of his life. I want to honor what I have lost while also being grateful for what I have been given. Grateful that I got to be Cheyne's mother and for the 24 years I got to have him as my son. And I am profoundly grateful for my other two sons, Skye and Ronin, who gave me the reason to keep going, and for all the people who have supported me all these years.

I want to grieve when grief comes. And I want to celebrate all the blessings God has given me.

My 30 days with Cheyne

On August 8, I began a 30-day sadhana for Cheyne, carrying me all the way to September 8. Sadhana is a Sanskrit word for a devoted spiritual practice. Each day I have dedicated my prayer, meditation, movement, mantra, remembrance and love to him.

I didn't begin this practice because I thought it would make my grief disappear. Eight years have taught me that grief isn't something we finish. We learn to carry it differently.

Sometimes it becomes softer and farther away. Then an anniversary, a song, a photograph, a memory — or simply an ordinary moment — can bring another wave. That doesn't mean we are going backward. It means the love is still there.

One of the things practice has taught me is this: ritual gives grief somewhere to go. Every morning, I come to my altar. I light a candle. I pray. I move. I chant. I meditate. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I talk to Cheyne. And sometimes I simply sit with him.

The sadhana gives my love — and the grief that accompanies that love — somewhere sacred to go.

"Mom, remember how I lived, too"

Somewhere during these 30 days, I began to hear something from Cheyne very clearly:

"Mom, remember how I lived, too."

That may be the greatest teaching he has given me this year. Because when someone dies by suicide, the way they died can become the loudest part of their story. The ending can eclipse everything that came before it.

But Cheyne's death does not get to become the meaning of his life. Cheyne was an Aries, full of fire. He was an incredible athlete. He had an amazing laugh. He loved his friends and his family. He was the oldest of three brothers and an extraordinary big brother. He was my first son. Even when he was little, there was something in him that looked out for me. And somehow, all these years later, I still experience him doing that.

So this year, my prayer is different: on September 8, don't just remember how Cheyne died. Help me remember how he lived. Tell me the funny story. Tell me something he did that I never knew about. Tell me how he made you feel. Tell me about an adventure you shared. Tell me when he made you laugh. Tell me when he showed up for you.

I want to keep discovering the whole human being who was here for 24 years before September 8, 2018. His death is part of his story. It is not his whole story.

What suicide prevention month is really about

September is Suicide Prevention Month. And perhaps this year I understand its purpose differently. It isn't a month asking those of us who have lost someone to suicide to spend 30 days immersed in tragedy. It is a month about breaking silence, creating connection, recognizing when someone may be struggling, helping people find support, and reminding one another that there is hope. Because suicide is not rare.

The numbers

• More than 720,000 people die by suicide globally every year.
• Suicide is the third leading cause of death among people ages 15–29 worldwide.
• In the United States, 48,824 people died by suicide in 2024.

These aren't just numbers. They are our sons and daughters. Our mothers and fathers. Our partners, friends, neighbors and members of our communities. They are people who were loved. That is why we need to keep talking.

If someone you love is struggling, notice. Reach out. Ask directly. Listen. Stay connected. And if you are struggling, please tell someone. Let someone come closer. You do not have to carry everything alone.

Resources, if you need them today

• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — United States. Call or text 988, or visit 988lifeline.org.
• Befrienders Worldwide International, emotional-support and crisis resources: befrienders.org.
• International Association for Suicide Prevention. International suicide-prevention information and resources: iasp.info.

Please share these resources freely. They can save lives.

Resources for those grieving a suicide loss

If you're carrying this kind of loss yourself, you don't have to carry it alone.

American Foundation for Suicide Prevention — Healing Conversations Healing Conversations connects people who have lost someone to suicide with a trained volunteer who has also experienced suicide loss. AFSP also offers grief resources and International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. afsp.org

Alliance of Hope for Suicide Loss Survivors: A 24/7 online community created specifically for people grieving a suicide loss, along with support resources and information about finding groups. allianceofhope.org

The Compassionate Friends: Support for parents and families grieving the death of a child, including families whose child died by suicide. compassionatefriends.org

Love continues...

One of the deepest things I have learned since Cheyne died is that my relationship with him did not end. It changed form. I am still his mother. I still speak to him. I still ask him questions. I still feel him. I still learn from him. I still love him.

That continuing relationship became part of the heart of my book, With You Forever. The book was born from the rawest years of my grief, but also from everything Cheyne continued to teach me about love, death, healing and what remains.

In the rawest days after Cheyne died, my practice was one of the things that kept me standing. I didn't always want to show up to my mat, sit in meditation, chant, breathe or pray. Some mornings, the only thing that got me there was the discipline I had built long before I knew how desperately I would need it. My practice didn't take the grief away. It gave me a container sturdy enough to hold it and a way back to my body, my faith and myself.

That experience is why I created Power of Practice.

If Cheyne's story or With You Forever feels like something you or someone you love needs right now, the book is there. And when you order it, I am including Power of Practice as my gift to you.

Not because there is a practice that can erase grief. There isn't. But because sometimes we need something to hold onto while we learn how to carry what cannot be changed. Ritual gives grief somewhere to go.

A small ritual for someone you love

You don't need a 30-day sadhana to create sacred space for grief or love. Today, you might simply:

Light a candle.
Say someone's name aloud.
Place flowers beside their photograph.
Take a walk for them.
Say a prayer or mantra.
Write them a letter.
Call someone you've been thinking about.
Reach out to someone who may be lonely or struggling.
Do one act of love in honor of someone you miss.

And if there is someone you would like me to hold in prayer during my September 8 practice, leave their name in the comments below, or reach out through my contact page — I would be honored to place them beside Cheyne in my prayers.

My prayer this September

This year, my prayer is for everyone who has lost someone to suicide. It is for everyone who is struggling to stay. It is for the mothers and fathers and siblings and partners and friends learning how to live in a world that changed forever.

And it is also a prayer of gratitude. For another birthday. For another September. For the people I love who are still here. For this body. For the ocean. For practice. For laughter. For love. For another year of this wild and precious human life.

Cheyne's greatest message — and mine — is still the same:

Love yourself. Deeply. Completely. Without waiting for permission.

Maybe that is part of how we create the world of peace we long for. By loving ourselves. By loving one another. By noticing when someone is hurting. By staying. By reaching toward each other. By remembering the people we have lost not only for how they died, but for how beautifully, messily, extraordinarily humanly they lived.

I can hear Cheyne again:

"Mom, remember how I lived, too."

I will.

And I will honor his life by continuing to live mine.

With love, gratitude, and life, Monica