What You Leave Behind

By Special Guest: Jamie Tafoya

My son Jonah was six years old when his dad died by suicide. At first, all he understood was that he would never see his dad again. I had to explain the rest. I had to look my little boy in the eye and say the words no parent should ever have to say that his dad didn’t die in an accident or from cancer. That his dad made the choice to leave.

Can you guess the very first thing Jonah asked after I told him?

“Because he didn’t want to see me anymore?”

I can still feel that question like the gut punch it was. It destroyed me. People assume a lot about suicide when they’re considering it. That it will bring peace. That their loved ones will be better off. That it will end the pain.

Suicide doesn’t end pain, it transfers it.

Jason—Jonah’s dad—was an active-duty soldier in the Army. He loved his son deeply.

But like many who serve, he carried heavy things in silence. I don’t know what the last moments of his life looked like. He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t call. The last text I sent him asking if he wanted to FaceTime with Jonah got to him an hour too late.

You can’t prepare for that kind of absence. There is no script for how to hold and carry a child through that kind of loss.

That day, Jonah lost his second biggest advocate. As his mom, I’ll claim the top spot, but his dad was right behind me. And Jonah didn’t just lose his dad; he lost a future with him. The everyday moments and the big ones. His dad won’t be in the stands when he plays soccer. He won’t hear him sing at school performances—Jonah has an excellent voice. He won’t take him trick-or-treating or teach him how to drive. He won’t be there at graduation or stand beside him on his wedding day. And one day, when Jonah becomes a father himself, his dad won’t be there to meet his grandchild.

When Jonah was eight, I told him I was using part of the military life insurance money we received to publish a children’s book based on our story. He said, “That’s fine with me. I don’t even want any of that money. I just want my dad.”

The book is called I’m Small, But I Lost Someone Big. It’s for children who’ve lost a parent to suicide, because I couldn’t find anything that really spoke to what Jonah and I were living through.

The book is gentle but honest. We included the hard parts, and even a few funny ones, our hectic little corgi, Ben, makes an appearance because grief needs laughter, too. Jonah helped shape the book. It’s his story – I just wrote it down.

He has a stepdad now who loves him fiercely. He has a baby sister who adores him. We’re building a beautiful life, but it’s layered with loss that didn’t have to be. You don’t “get over” something like this. You learn to carry it with you.

If you’re someone who is hurting right now, especially if you’ve worn a uniform, if you’ve served others for a living, if you’ve been trained to compartmentalize everything, I want to say this plainly:

I understand how hard it can get. I’ve had days when I didn’t want to be here anymore either. But what I know now is that the worst moments pass. The fog lifts. The weeds grow back, sure, but so does everything else.

If you think you’re making a clean exit, you’re not. You stay, in the hardest ways. In unanswered questions. In awkward explanations and painful conversations. In birthdays and celebrations that feel just a little bit off.

So please—stay.
Let someone in.

To the survivors—spouses, exes, children, siblings, parents, friends:
Whatever you’re feeling—grief, rage, numbness, confusion—it’s allowed. All of it. There’s no map for this kind of loss, no timeline that makes it easier. But I want you to know you’re not alone.

You’re still here, and that means something. The rest of the people who love you are still here.

Healing and grief aren’t straight lines. Some days you’ll be okay, and the next day you’re not. That’s normal. That’s human.

Life won’t be the same after this, but it can still be beautiful. You’re allowed to laugh. You’re allowed to find joy. You’re allowed to move forward.

About the author:
Jamie Tafoya is a mom, wife, and children’s author based in Denver, Colorado. After losing her son’s father to suicide, she wrote I’m Small, But I Lost Someone Big to help kids make sense of the impossible. She speaks and writes about grief, parenting after loss, and the power of honest conversations. You can find her at www.jamietafoya.com or www.tiktok.com/@jamietafoya.