When I think of suicide, I don’t think of annual training slides, 22 pushup challenges, or the “thoughts and prayers” from social media posts. Instead, I think about the phone call with my mom. I think about needing to call her because I had just been told that my friend had taken his own life. 

I think about the concern in her voice when she paused to ask me if I was OK. I think of the cold, wet mud on my knees when I fell to the ground next to my truck and began to sob into the phone because I couldn’t answer. 

“Are you OK?” I don’t think anyone who has encountered suicide is ever truly OK again. When someone you love chooses to take their own life, they decide to kill a piece of you, too. That part of you that loved them cannot find peace until it finds some resolution or forgiveness.

Active-duty service members and veterans thinking of harming themselves can get free crisis care. Contact the Military Crisis Line at 988, then press 1, or access online chat by texting 838255. People who are not in the military can also call 988.

And how can you forgive them? How can you grieve for someone and feel so angry at them?

I’ve come to believe that the Connor* who put a gun to his head is not the Connor I knew. At least that’s what I want to believe. I want to believe that Connor had no idea of the pain that he would cause. He loved his family and friends so much that it was impossible not to love him back. But he didn’t love us enough to ask for help. He didn’t love us enough to stay. 

Whether he realized it or not, he chose to commit an act that irreparably damaged everyone who loved him. 

The Connor I knew wouldn’t do that to his friends. The Connor I knew wouldn’t drive his father to the bottle. Or push his family to sell their family property and move out of the state to escape the memory of what he’d done. 

The Connor I knew loved to make everyone laugh. But now, he haunts the lives of his friends and family. Connor used to bring everyone together for a good time, but now we try to avoid mentioning his name. 

I had another friend, Craig*. He and I never talked about Connor or that night until we both became too overwhelmed to suppress the memories. 

Over the next couple of years, we had several late-night conversations. About Connor sending an apology text in our group chat. About Craig rushing to his house, kicking down his door, and finding his body, which was surrounded by the gun and dozens of apology letters that Connor had written to his friends, family, and even the first responders, to apologize for the mess.

Craig told me that he ran screaming from the house into the street that night. Despite the horrors he’d witnessed, I remember being proud of Craig. Proud to be friends with someone who rushed to help his friend. And I was proud to watch him get help and do what we had been instructed to do to cope with these situations. 

When I think of suicide, I also think about the puddle. The puddle that was all that was left of Craig, a little over two years later. I think about how thick it was. I think about how I could guess exactly how he must have been sitting on his bed based on the splatter. I think about how long it took to clean everything up and how far everything spread. 

I also think about getting the phone call from his wife. I think about her screaming at me. I think about calling our friends and his parents to tell them what happened. I think about forcing myself to watch the first responders wheel his body out of the house. Punishing myself with it because it was all I could do to try to make it right.

I failed Connor, and I failed Craig. Blaming myself for their deaths doesn’t help anything; it isn’t rational, and I know that. I didn’t force them to kill themselves. I didn’t put the gun to their head, and I didn’t pull the trigger. 

But suicide isn’t rational. It doesn’t make sense. And trying to predict, prevent, and respond to suicide rationally doesn’t make sense either. Because no matter what rational voice I hear or rational thought I have, I will always feel responsible in my heart. 

I failed to see the signs. The signs didn’t compare to any military training I had received on this topic. Neither Connor nor Craig tried to sell their prized possessions before their deaths. Neither man stated any intent to harm themselves. Neither isolated themselves from their friends. And frankly, both, like most Marines, always drank heavily, so there were no alarms about their behavior in that respect.

The signs of their intent were not nearly as neat or organized as annual training would lead one to believe. An additional punishment of losing someone to suicide is the many memories that are now ruined by wondering what you missed.

Like the night out that I spent with Connor on his last birthday. I thought Connor had a great time. He was the life of the party as usual. But I found out later that he had gone home that night and begun writing the apology letters that were found next to his body two months later. 

Or the night that Craig came over to my house on a random Monday, got drunk, and reminisced with me. He had come to check on me because I had just put down my dog. He hugged me and told me he loved me before he left. I answered the phone to his wife screaming at me five days later. 

I understand the purpose of annual training. I understand trying to give Marines signs to look for is better than giving them nothing at all. But I believe we are lying to ourselves and to our Marines if we try to wrap suicide into a neat little box. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have a clear solution. It’s easy to pick apart our current measures for suicide prevention and criticize them for being ineffective. But proposing something that will fully solve our current battle with mental health is well beyond any one person’s capabilities. 

All I can offer is the proverbial other side of the coin. 

When I think of suicide, I also think of Capt. Patrick Callahan. Capt. Callahan was my company commander and the first person I called when I arrived at Craig’s house on that terrible night. 

Although it was the 4th of July, Capt. Callahan picked up my late-night call after only two rings. He didn’t have all the answers either, but he calmly talked me through what he knew and what he could do. He helped a young, scared Marine figure it out.

I called him the next day when I learned that first responders take the body, but don’t touch the mess left behind. I knew how to remove the carpet and subflooring and was able to clean the joists beneath. 

But I didn’t know how to lay carpet, and it was a holiday weekend. No contractors were available, and I didn’t want Craig’s family to deal with it. 

So, I called Capt. Callahan for his advice. He told me that he knew someone and just needed to know the time and location. The next day, at noon, Capt. Callahan and his gunny were at Craig’s house. And they spent the holiday weekend, not with their families, but on their hands and knees, laying carpet in a stranger’s house. 

Capt. Callahan didn’t know Craig. He just knew that he was a Marine and that his family needed help. And that was enough for him. 

Capt. Callahan will probably never be famous. He hasn’t written any books about leadership and doesn’t run any social media pages. He’s far too busy being a leader and being there for his Marines to seek that kind of attention. In his own quiet way, he has saved many Marines, myself included. 

Connor and Craig’s deaths shattered me to my core. But they also exposed me to what real leadership is. 

Leadership isn’t captured in front of a camera or on a podcast. It isn’t validated by likes, followers, or fitness reports. Leadership happens in the small, day-to-day interactions with the people whom you truly care about. It happens through sacrifice. It happens through self-denial and humility. It often happens when no one is looking or celebrates it.  

It is embodied in the type of leader who will come to a stranger’s house on a holiday weekend. The kind of leader who will always be there for their Marines, and they know it. 

Editor’s Note: The views expressed are those of the individual only and not those of the Marine Corps or the Department of Defense. 

*Although the names have been changed for privacy, The War Horse confirmed the identities of the two people mentioned in this essay who died by suicide. 

This War Horse Reflection was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Kim Vo wrote the headlines.